


Un' Avventura Italiana (An Italian Adventure)

by FalleNess



Series: we're just trouble [Resslington] [3]
Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Slash, Bisexual Character, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gen with Slash, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Minor Character Death, Missing Scene, Mission Fic, Non-Linear Narrative, Nudity, Original Character(s), Out of Character, Pre-Slash If You Squint, Ressler is an adrenaline junkie, Resslington, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2020-03-06 00:29:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18839926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalleNess/pseuds/FalleNess
Summary: Red and Ressler are together on a case, but as fate would have it, everything goes south.





	1. Uno

**Author's Note:**

> It's Liz Keen-free universe. 
> 
> Most of the brotp resslington moments in the canon are interpreted differently or changed to fit the story/universe.
> 
> RED IS BISEXUAL IN THIS STORY.  
> Comments, feedback, etc., are highly appreciated! 
> 
> It's not proofread by a native speaker, so if anyone wants to be my beta, I'm game.
> 
> Let's hope it takes more than five chapters. Or not. :P

“Agent Ressler.”

Must be a dream. 

“Donald.” 

He's never heard his name uttered by a man this way—hell, he's not gay or anything—but it sounds... Pleasant. Odd, but pleasant. He isn't sure why. Maybe, it's because someone checks on him for the first time in days? Or, maybe, it's the voice itself.

“We've already seen an awful lot of each other in the office, but I'm afraid I had to break our privacy agreement.” 

The words flow smoothly; each and every of them is thoroughly handpicked. Like the ripest grape to blend into the finest wine. They have almost made him put the guard down—under the pillow his right hand grips the Sig Sauer weaker than usual.

Matching the owner of the voice to the hundreds of names isn't easy. However, this particular voice, often heard by the Special Agent Donald Ressler is strikingly familiar. Perhaps, even too much for the most wanted man in America and abroad. You want to catch a bad guy—make the deal with the baddest one of them all.

A growl, muffled by the pillow, comes from Ressler's throat as he lets go of the gun and turns from his stomach on his back. He has smooched the pillow exactly at 4 a.m. His clothes—a dark blue suit, striped shirt, and tie—are a messy pile under the chair. A half-emptied scotch bottle is laying on the floor.

When applying for the FBI, Donald hasn't thought that he, an agent who swore to uphold the law, will break it. Multiple times, sealed and approved by the selected group of DOJ's officials, dancing to whatever wants of the Concierge of Crime, Raymond “Red” Reddington, the criminal turned informant, like a bunch of puppets on a string.

The world has always been black-and-white for Donald. Although, for the last five years alongside Reddington he has tiptoed between good and evil. He isn't sure there's something left to hold on. But that's the price you pay when the number one in the most wanted list, traitor and ex-KGB operative, screws up your round-the-clock routine.

Ressler's stomach is turning every time at doing the Concierge's of Crime bidding. As much as Donald hates to admit it, the intel Reddington's been sharing has boosted his career from questioning multiple UFO witnesses in Kansas City to top-secret missions. Lately these missions have been serving more to Reddington's agenda than FBI's. And somehow Donald has made peace with it. Sort of.

He is getting off on danger—that's the truth Donald has grasped about himself lately. He isn't sure Anonymous Addicts deal with that. He tried another way: gambling hasn't kicked in the way he'd expected it would; shooting at the range hasn't turned him on either—paper isn't people; steering the wheel at 100 miles per hour hasn't also been much of a help—it can't beat the thrill of the real car chase. 

Once Donald has blown coke to maintain his cover. Withdrawals are a bitch, but luckily the habit hasn't stuck with him—it isn't as satisfying as dodging the bullet. Who needs crack if you can escape death?

The idea of Ressler doing drugs hasn't sounded exciting to Reddington at all. What is even more weird, Red doesn't tolerate drugs and drug trafficking as well as human trafficking. Weapons, however, are a different story. 

The higher the stakes on Reddington's cases are, the more Donald realizes he is an adrenaline junkie.

Thank God the FBI doesn't know.

Mrs. Hannah Ball, the counter-terrorism department shrink—affectionately called ‘Dr. Lecter’ behind her back—is a nice woman who is just doing her job. And Donald respects that. She has helped him once after the case brought by Reddington. Donald has accidentally shot a seven-year-old boy in self defense on the outskirts of Durban in South Africa. There hasn't been much of a choice at that moment—either he or the boy, carrying an AK-47 with him. As much as an understanding woman Mrs. Ball might be, Donald could not let her take his only way of release.

He would be a shitty agent if he hadn't found a way around it.

Her name is Sarah. Sarah is beyond eager to get along with everyone. A smile here, a compliment there—and Sarah is giving away Hannah's schedule of monthly checkups. A couple of more dinners—and Sarah, singing like a bird, brings in classified copies of his psych eval reports at his doorstep. She also brings her boobs and curves in laces and straps. Sarah cries like a seagull at some point—thank God his apartment walls are more or less soundproof.

They've had fun but it hasn't worked out. Maybe he isn't made for long term commitment, or, maybe, she's been too meek for his taste. Anyway, the break-up almost ruins Sarah and she leaves the FBI. Donald barely sleeps at night after that. His conscience eating him up, he pulls a few strings and Sarah gets a job in Las Vegas.

An invaluable lesson for him—shove the guilt up your ass or you're fucked.

“I hate to march on you like that, but you're the only person I can trust at this moment.”

Ressler, wearily rubbing his left eye, blinks at the oxfords on the cheap laminate, a tailored three-piece suit—its exquisite design screaming of his owner's deep pockets—and a handcrafted fedora. Years haven't left a mark at Reddington at all—no wrinkle to spot on his well-groomed round face. His amiable looks reminding a teddy bear, the corners of his thin lips are always risen a bit as if he's about to tell a fascinating story.

What strikes an opponent first when they meet Red's gaze, is his eyes—a rich tobacco-green—that are piercing through the darkest corners of the soul. Nothing escapes them, staring hard, assessing every move, every breath taken. Depending on the person's worth, Reddington looks at them two ways: either like on the priceless treasure he's been longing to lay his hands on for a long time, or—like they are the dirt under his feet, miserable than any other man he's ever met.

Ressler has gotten both.

Reddington is a sucker for luxury; Donald, on the contrary, doesn't need a lot to be content. He feels most comfortable resting in his log cabin on the Chelan lake than sipping an unpronounceable cocktail at the end of the world. He can't deny enjoying Reddington's jet trips to the most exotic places on earth, but he isn't eager to come back there again. Well, maybe, he could—for that brunette serving them both coffee on Cuba. The coffee's been awful, but the brunette's booty, wrapped in a slim floral dress, compensated that. If he had dropped by that coffee shop more often, she'd surely have given him her number. Or he'd have asked her out. A week after the coffee shop has been turned into a bloody mess on a blissful Monday morning—bodies dropping and bullets flying—and he hasn't had a chance to find out if she's made it.

Ressler glances at the alarm-clock. 6 am. _Fuck._ The only day— _the only fucking day_ —he doesn't need to give a shit about getting his ass barbecued in explosions or kicked by a hot Ukrainian chick-turned-out-to-be-assassin, is Sunday. His only day he's not available for entertaining Reddington. It's not like he doesn't like his job at the FBI—he does; however, babysitting a criminal isn't exactly the job he's dreamed of.

Donald adjusts himself on the bed, watching Reddington. Red doesn't seem bothered a bit by the fact he has broken into his apartment.

 _In my bedroom, for God's sake!_ Ressler childishly hopes it's just a bad dream. But it's not.

“Ho-o-w..?” Donald fails to stifle a yawn.

He has almost thrown his blanket off. The last thing he wants is Reddington to see his boner. God bless Washington's chilly weather—be it warm, he wouldn't even be covered with the blanket...

Reddington meaningfully chuckles. “I suggest you change your alarm's safe word.”

Donald's used to Concierge's sarcastic jabs. It doesn't matter he's graduated the Academy, top of his class, or that he's a great marksman. He's also fluent in German, Italian and Spanish. His Russian is rough, but passable.

Not waiting for an invitation, Reddington sits at the edge of Donald's bed. Ressler's jaw twitches. For him it's all about setting boundaries. Job. Dates. Acquaintances. What he hates most about Reddington—and secretly admires—he exists out of any. He's a snake—twirling and circling between obstacles. If the intel is impossible to get by good old blackmail, bribing, kidnapping or torture, Reddington designs intricate schemes, often including both women and men trained to lure the prey right into the trap.

He is also not afraid to mix business with pleasure. It is getting under Ressler's skin every fucking time they are in the field together.

_“What if he finds out you laid his sister?”_

_“I kneecapped his brother too—now he has at least two reasons to talk with me.”_

 

* * *

 

“What's up anywa-ay?” Donald asks, yawning again. He could've used some sleep. For three more hours. Or half a day.

“One of my associates sealed the deal I didn't approve of. I need to go and convince the other party to revoke the agreement.”

“Don't you usually just put a bullet in both of them and take the money?”

Reddington is grinning—not at him, Donald, but at the idea. His eyes are cold, giving up the predator feeding on flesh and blood. 

“As tempting as it might seem, I can't do that. I've known Lorenzo for years.” Reddington's face has a joyful expression on it. “Ah, you can't say you've been to Rome if you don't try his wine. _Divino!_  Hundreds of acres of all year round _Grillo_...” Red  closes his eyelids, savoring the invisible glass.

Ressler almost rolls his eyes. _Here we go._

“Lorenzo-who? It's Italy we're talking about.”

“Lorenzo Costa, he is—”

“Why am I not surprised your best buddy is the Godfather?” 

Ressler has heard of him—Lorenzo Costa is a savage, making a fortune funneling money through his casinos, pawn shops, laundry shops; he's done drugs and racketeering too. Bodies, bowels out, testicles minced, turn up all over Rome. Apparently, the guy is untouchable and has the peninsula's authorities in his pocket.

Donald is genuinely amused how someone gets along with the man. Costa, like all Italians, is known for his hot and changeable temper. If he doesn't like you, your brains will splash over the wall faster than you blink.

“I made the US government my ally. I'm quite capable to handle Costa.” Reddington's lips turn up in a self-conscious grin. “I befriended you too.” 

“We're not friends,” Ressler blurts angrily. “You're an FBI's asset. Not more, not less.”

Reddington chuckles. His eyes catch Petrarch's _Canzoniere_ — _In Italian!_ —nearby Ressler's pillow. Some pages are thoroughly bookmarked in different stickers. Reddington might bet that handwritten notes are scribbled somewhere at the back of Ressler's black pocket notebook.

Red barely hides this surprises him: whenever he quotes Petrarch, Ressler absent-mindedly nods, clearly not interested at the conversation.

“You know, Donald, you hadn't struck me as an avid reader when we first met in Brussels.” Reddington smirks, tilting his head to the side. He is perfectly aware that mentioning Brussels is equal to matador waving a _muleta_ before the bull—the assassination op, led by Ressler, has proven a miserable failure. “I'd never thought you speak a foreign language too. You looked nothing but an ignorant pile of muscle to me.” 

Ressler grits his teeth. What has he done wrong to deserve all this?

“How'd you find it?” Reddington changes the subject, pointing at the book. He always takes a moment to appreciate all the good things in life—a captivating book, art, poetry, the latest Broadway show... Ressler has never seen anyone so thirsty for life. For opportunities. Reddington is the living embodiment of _carpe diem._ There are times Donald envies him more than Reddington will ever know.

“Nice. Too sweet for my liking. But it doesn't change a fact that eternal love is a first-class bullshit. People break vows, cheat and lie all the time.”

“Love is a delicate, ambiguous feeling. You should never underestimate the power of it.”

Reddington stands up from the bed and paces around the room. He looks around: the room is half size smaller than his suite at _Marriott_. It reminds him of his college days. He stops at the shelf, full of trophies. Hockey, football, swimming. They bring memories of the life he's once had, friends he's made, dates...

All gone. 

They say wounds mend with time. _A shameless lie._ They never do. _Never._ You get used to nightmares, to reddened eyes in the mornings, to insomnia. First, you blame yourself: for not being there, for not doing enough. Next, you're outraged. There's so much hate in you that at times it is hard to breathe. Vengeance isn't helping—it doesn't bring you any closure. You can't turn the time. Can't change a damn thing.

The helplessness is sucking the life out of you until one day you realize— _you've got used to the pain._

Reddington looks at the row of framed photographs. He lets a soft giggle at young Ressler among pretty cheerleaders in mini-skirts—Donald reminds him of a ginger cat in spring. Red can appreciate the young's man physique which has only grown better with time: the girls at college must have been all hot and crazy about that defined back and sinewy arms. Among other pictures there's one that stands out—a tall, freckled ginger-haired man and a boy, his father's lookalike. A rifle in his hands, a boy, probably, aged between eight and nine years old, is radiating excitement. Perhaps, it's his first time at the shooting range. His father is smiling proudly, his hands on the boy's shoulders.

Reddington thinks of his own father—a total opposite. There are memories of him he'd like to permanently erase from his memory. His eyes spot another shot: two ginger-haired boys, one is taller than the other, hugging their mother, laugh in the camera.

Unlike his father, Red's mother's been the most loving and caring woman in the whole world. She's also been the wisest person he's ever known; yet she's died a foolish death. Violent. Unjust. The person who's swore to love and protect her has become her executioner. 

“I'm not underestimating it. I'm just saying love's not for everyone,” Donald's tight voice breaks the paralyzing feeling of the stirred memories.

Red forces himself back to the present. “You just haven't met the right person,” he gives Ressler a curt smile. “Love is powerful. Dangerous. It can take you to heaven or scorch you in the flames.” Reddington falls silent. He remembers the night of the fire—the night he's lost it all.  “The things you do out of love...” He pauses, collecting his thoughts.

He's had a family. A normal life. Until one day it's been taken from him, with fire, blood and bullets.

“You'd never thought you'd do them. Ever.”

Ressler looks at the man before him. The man he'd rather see in a prison's cell. Or a torture chamber. Yet somehow, for the first time the FBI has gotten in bed with Reddington, he sees a human. Abandoned by its homeland; wretched, lonely; a man, who never fits in. A man who has traveled far and wide, who's seen the places most people can only dream of.

But the truth, and his biggest tragedy is, that he doesn't belong anywhere.

And he never will. 

At times Ressler is scared he is too lenient with Reddington. And that Red, knowing it, is using him. He is a criminal, after all. He can't be trusted. But what if he saves your life by performing blood transfusion in the field? What if he burns alive the person who has been blackmailing you for almost three months? What if he covers up your screw-up with the National Security Advisor? What if the drug test—the test you're one hundred percent sure turns up positive for Vicodin—turns up negative?

Donald can't find the answer why Reddington is doing all of it. Why he's so interested in him. He's certain it's not sexual _—“You're not my type, Donald, don't worry,”—_ Reddington's affairs with both women and men have made it clear. Ressler hasn't found any connection to Reddington with his family either. His father, Brian Ressler, has been an honest cop who has turned down the bribe, and it has literally killed him. His mother, Samantha, is a Math teacher at the elementary school.

Soon Ressler gets tired of questions with no answers—Reddington doesn't give him any; his fancy talk doesn't inspire Ressler to unravel the cobweb of lies. Donald just rolls with the way things go, occasionally picking the crumbs of the truth Red's generous enough to share.

There are times Donald is scared to ask himself this: would he become like Reddington if his mother hadn't taken care of him?

After his father's funeral, Ressler almost shuts himself out from everyone, pissed off on the whole fucking world. Angry, hurt. He has been this close to take the wrong road, however, his mother has made sure it doesn't happen.

Ressler looks at Reddington holding a picture of him and his younger brother in his hands. Instead snapping at him and telling him to put it back, different words escape Donald's mouth.

“You're the only child in the family?” Donald doesn't place much stock in profiling, but he's always been able to recognize such children. It's in their eyes _—_ you won't mix that look with anything else.

Reddington puts the frame back. “You see him often?” 

Donald is already used to half-truths, to question-answer ping-pong between them. If you want to get, you need to give. Up to this point he has preferred to simply take what he wants by force. 

“Not much. He's rarely home. I'm visiting him in the hospital whenever I'm free.” Noticing Red's look, Ressler adds, “Heart failure.” Ressler stifles another yawn. “But you haven't come all the way here to chat about my brother's well-being.” _Because I know you don't give a shit about anyone but yourself._ He yawns, covering his mouth.  _Wake up, damn it!_ “Costa. You set a meeting with him?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. We're wheels up in forty minutes. Rome awaits us!” Reddington announces, theatrically gesturing himself. He tilts his head, watching Donald. “Aren't you getting up?” he prompts politely.

“I am. But I'd use some privacy. You mind?” Ressler nods at the door.

Reddington stands up, adjusting his jacket. He casts the last glance around the room again. A cactus is looming on the windowsill.

_Another day, another battle._


	2. Due

Red isn’t sure it’s possible to feel something after all these years.

Dembe, his friend, confidante and brother in spirit, not blood, whom he has freed of slavery in a brothel, has saved Red from drowning in the sea of grief and despair. He has had his back more times than Red can count. Yet time passes, relationships evolve. Dembe wants to pursue his own aspirations. Red agrees, not without regret, wishing he's visited him more often. Dembe's having a family, a life he deserves. For being loyal, for keeping countless dirty, bloody, shameful secrets; for covering up a lot of unforgivable things Red has done.

Red is happy for Dembe with all his being, but it doesn’t change the fact he misses him. He has never taken Dembe's presence for granted. Although only now Red has realized that a significant part of his life is gone. Humans are social animals, no matter what we like to imagine. And we all need someone. Someone to be there for us. Someone by our side. Someone not to blindly follow the path, but have their own opinion. Someone to spend the evenings with, not a word uttered, savoring the bliss of the silence. To agree and to doubt. To help us do the right thing.

Red is aware he has been set up. He knows who; he knows how. He knows how to find them. 

The only thing he lacks is proof.

Vultures. Filthy consumers, draining out the resources until there’s nothing to leech at. Pawning innocent lives for another star on the stripes. Masters of disguise—they are hiding in plain sight. It’s easy for them to cover their tracks because the entire US government is their bulletproof shield. They won’t stop at anything, even at disgracing a decorated officer.

What they don’t know is this—he, the scapegoat they’ve created—is a living proof of how it’s easy to fool them, infiltrating within their most guarded military structures.

Neither KGB not CIA could not have predicted their plans collapsing in a breath like a house of cards. All is crumbled because of a simple yet powerful thing. 

Mightier than bullets and deadlier than poison. 

The force which has brought empires on their knees.

_Love._

 

* * *

 

Before the Concierge of Crime has appeared on the world’s criminal underworld stage, a young and promising KGB officer Andrei Krasnov has been dreaming of breathtaking career, serving his Homeland well and truthfully. KGB, appreciating the officer’s loyalty and exceptional skills in foreign languages, sends him to the US, arranging a fake marriage with a pretty American woman who is loyal to the cause. Instead of Andrei Krasnov, a law-abiding citizen Raymond Reddington is born.

By the time KGB orders the couple to solidify their cover by having kids, Red has already fallen for his wife, Victoria, for real. It's too late to go into hiding—the kids have been just born and Red is being groomed for Admiral at the Naval Intelligence. Red's allegiances swiftly change, his only agenda is to protect his family.

Red doesn’t know at what exact moment he gets burned as a double agent.

On a cold Christmas night in 1991 he goes home for holidays. His car stalls in the snow so Red walks on foot to his house, carrying presents. All he sees is the fire swallowing the roof, walls, windows. He tries to break in, but the fire sprawls over, sizzling, and the building collapses, leaving no chance to get in.

Mutilated bodies—two girls and a woman—are recovered later.

His mugshot all over the news, Red realizes it’s the end. It doesn’t take long to find out where the leak originates from—the CIA. If the CIA know, the KGB are aware as well too.

He can’t believe the same people promising him protection are the same people to have sold him, claiming a traitor to the US to dispose of him like a trash. Same people of the country he has betrayed his own Homeland for.

Red flees in a hurry. Accumulating money and resources, a decade later he emerges as the notorious Concierge of Crime, with one and only agenda—revenge.

Years of travelling, experiences, partnerships, ups and downs, disappointments, betrayals, and Red compiles a list of criminals—the Blacklist—his leverage.

The top of the CIA stinks of corruption and bathes in filth. Even with all his resources, Red can’t get the access there—he’ll be immediately captured and placed in the 2x2 cell at the end of the world to be tortured for the rest of his days. Those people are protected by the government machine they’re tearing and ripping apart piece by piece in their pursuit of power.

Together with Dembe Red finds another way—to involve the FBI. CIA and FBI don’t like to put their fingers into each other’s pies, so it's worth to take the shot.

When Red’s given the dossier, his lucky ticket into the FBI—Ressler’s—he almost aborts the entire operation.

 

* * *

  
Donald doesn’t know—and Red doesn’t have the guts to tell him that just yet—that he, Red, is the reason his father’s dead.

One of Red’s clients has been a subject of Brian Ressler's investigation. First Red advises his client the harmless way to deal with the stubborn cop—he doesn't like to spill blood without the utmost need. But Brian refuses to take the bribe, and Red's client puts a bullet in his head—Red’s been generous enough to offer one of his guns-on-hire to assist.

Nothing personal, just business.

A week later Reddington learns that the allegations Brian Ressler has made about his client are true. Red doesn't usually investigates his partners or associates; he prefers to show he trusts them. A bond can't be formed without trust. And Red's bond, his trust and assurance, is his currency. If someone violates that trust they are either insane or don't know whom they're dealing with. Child trafficking is one of many things Red, despite being a criminal, doesn’t tolerate in any way.

To survive in the chaotic world, further complicated by a man’s fickle nature, he lives by a strict moral code. Dembe has been the guiding hand of his moral compass for all these years, helping him navigating in the troubled waters. Red’s hands are stained with blood—he is not perfect. Yet he has never killed an innocent man, a woman or a child.

Reading Ressler's dossier, Red realizes how much Donald reminds him his own self—the son of a crooked cop disgraced by the country which has wiped its shoes off him. Brian Ressler has been at the wrong place, at the wrong time—just like Red's family.

_Collateral damage._

Dembe and Red have known each other long enough to know what Red will do—the right thing.

_“My first and the most important condition is that I speak only with Special Agent Donald Ressler.”_

 

* * *

  
Even after working with the man for the last five years Red can’t fathom how a mediocre person Donald Ressler is, can ever be appealing.

An arrogant prick, an ignorant moron at times. Despite that Red finds himself drawn to his straightforwardness and bluntness. Even Ressler's dry humor sometimes gives him a laugh or two.

It doesn’t matter he and Donald are at the opposite sides of the law. Ressler is almost Red’s twin in his young years—cocky, sharp-tongued, full of aspirations and the spirit of competition.

Ressler has no idea that Sarah—the Sarah he has thought to have fallen for his charms—is on Red's payroll. She has been instructed to keep an eye on everything going on in the Washington field office since the day Red has surrendered himself to the feds. Sarah has approached Reddington immediately when Ressler asks her to leak the checkups and psych evals.

It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, so Red arranges a 24-hour surveillance on Ressler, learning of all the ways Donald blows his steam off. Red also finds a bookie who's been blackmailing Ressler to report him to the FBI. Red makes sure the bookie never utters a word ever again, all his cash arranged to donate to the shelters for homeless. Whenever Red sees Donald at work, he can only appreciate the willpower it takes Ressler to show up at 8 o’clock sharp, his black suit spotless, striped shirt ironed perfectly, and tie straight.

While Sara is leaking Ressler phony reports, Red studies the real ones. Few more days and Donald would’ve been kicked out of the FBI.

There’s a change in Ressler when he’s in the field. He becomes… _different._ The situation extreme, Ressler acts unleashed, with the gas pedal pressed into the floor, his eyes giving away the thrill for the next kick. Red can tell Donald is not doing that for the sake of masochistic self-destruction; he’s too smart for that. Donald doesn’t strike him as a suicidal type either. It’s Ressler's idea— _an extremely unhealthy idea_ — of dealing with the impulses he suppresses, a perverse way of sublimating energy. 

Dark impulses are overpowering—Red is well aware of that since his opium experience in Kuala Lumpur. The leash on the demons loose, they will eat the soul up to the core.

Ressler is highly efficient. He picks everything on the run, absorbing it like a sponge. He follows orders like no other soldier of fortune Red’s known of and yet he isn't afraid to speak his mind if he disagrees on the tactics. At some situations even the best of Red's men are losing it, but not Ressler: Red has never met anyone to embody both cold-blooded calculation and insane recklessness. 

Donald also plays big and takes risks.

Sometimes those risks aren’t as necessary as Red hopes they'd be.

_“You’re not doing that ever again. Never.”_

_“‘Thank you, Ressler.’”_

_“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Donald. You could’ve died in there.”_

_“But I didn't, did I?”_

There is no universe existing where Reddington lets Ressler do that. Even if it’s a heroic death—Ressler catching a bullet meant for him, Red.

Because as much as Red tries to convince himself Donald is just a pawn in the scheme, a mere instrument to strike at the moment of need, it’s not true.

Donald Ressler, out of all people in the entire world, is his Achilles heel.

_His only dangerous disadvantage._


	3. Tre

Ressler knows Reddington's jet by heart: a spacious amber lounge for six persons, two rows of ivory leather armchairs and a private area with a divan, where Red usually escapes to read a book, leaving him on his own. He remembers the first time on this jet—so dull and boring. Even breaking news about the school bombing in Iraq before his eyes on the large screen hasn't bothered him.

In a desperate attempt to kill some time, Ressler decides to take a peek at the cabin. No one forbids him to, anyway.

Donald’s jaw almost drops at the sight. Two tall women, equally hot, wearing a pilot uniform. Judging by the four yellow stripes, both of their rank is Captain. Reddington always has the best for himself, be it the latest brand of the watch or the most capable mercenaries on hire.

Ressler, absolutely mesmerized by the pilots’ synchronized actions, hasn't noticed Reddington to have crept behind his back.

“Alex, Camilla, this is Donald, my associate.”

The women giving him a quick greeting nod, Ressler is able to take a look at them. The first one, a well-built brown-haired woman with a soft, teenager-like face. Her shirt’s sleeves are pulled up, she is wearing no jacket. The second co-pilot is almost the same height as the other, her short black hair trimmed at one side of her temple. Her face features are boyish, yet her body tells otherwise—a buttoned up slim shirt wraps her waist, and full breasts are cupped in a white bra.

Donald gives a greeting nod in return, and just as he turns his back to go at the lounge, he hears Reddington’s husky voice, directed at the pilots:

“Be gentle with him, ladies, it's his first time.”

Ressler hears a double "Yes, sir!" and a fading giggle when the cockpit door is shut.

 

* * *

 

Flying doesn’t excite Ressler very much indeed. No, he doesn't lock himself in the restroom and trembles with fright. It’s all about being in control—it’s hard to do so at thousands feet high. He can fly a helicopter, of course, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it. It doesn’t give him a heart-stirring feel of control he gets driving a stick. The fascination about trains is also foreign to him—probably he isn’t romantic enough to appreciate the wheels' _click-clack_ all the time. Their sound doesn’t lull, it's annoying. Motorcycles are cool, yet he simply has no money to burn at the new one because he often crashes them. Boats and yachts are definitely not his cup of tea at all. Once Ressler has sailed the ocean with Red on his yacht—the seasickness has gotten the best of him. He spends the rest of the trip finding the best spot where the earth (and the damn ocean) doesn't spin before his eyes. How come he isn’t afraid to break a bone or two, stand tortures and sharp pain, but is absolutely helpless before the _mal del mer_?

Red hasn’t lied—Alex and Camilla are bringing the top of their game. It feels like you’ve never taken your feet off the solid ground. Out of sheer curiosity Ressler spends the entire flight in the cockpit, because the view is much better there. The skies can't beat it, actually.

He doesn’t know if his face has betrayed him or Red is a telepath.

“If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t even think of that. ”

“Because they’re your employees?”

“Because I won’t waste a second of my time arranging your funeral when Camilla is done with you, should you even blink wrong at Alex.”

“Oh.”

“Does it bother you, Donald?”

“No, not really, just... Anyways, it’s none of my business.”

“Indeed, it’s not. I’m always wondering, why people are so tempted to peep into each other’s private lives? What a boring life it must be.”

Shorty after that conversation Ressler runs into Red's black Mercedes. Oddly enough, it stops at the entrance of the club Ressler is a frequenter at—girls are average, but booze is good. Ressler doesn't believe in coincidences, but he has already booked a seat for the night. He takes a mental note to go someplace else next time. Deep down he knows it won't help—he’s already used to Reddington's men following him. His morning jog in the park is never accompanied by the same men, yet their focused faces deceive they're not who they seem; each time the cashier at the grocery store nearby his apartment gives him a _Mona Lisa_ smile; whenever he walks downtown, the street musicians happen to play his favorite song; if he leaves his wallet at home, his meal is always on the house, be it a fancy restaurant or a diner.

If it's Reddington's twisted way of showing him how much he, Donald, is important to him, he can shove his care up deep his big wealthy ass. 

 

* * *

 

Ressler’s patience is growing paper thin day by day. He gets sick of Reddington's unhealthy inclinations and reports those to his supervisors yet all they are telling him it's not their concern. Donald wishes he could tell them to fuck off and find another agent to be Reddington's bitch. One evening he confronts Red when they both stay late at the office. Ressler is writing another report, and Reddington is being his annoying self, distracting his attention and pouring himself a glass of wine over and over.

“I don't need your protection. Call it off.”

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Don't act like you don't know. Just stop. All of it.”

“Donald, I'm not sure I'm following—”

Ressler shuts the lid of his laptop, and rises, knocking down his chair. Reddington's voice, calm and undisturbed, is fueling his rage, stinging the fingertips, the overwhelming heat of it sizzling all over his body. In a breath of a second Ressler grabs Reddington's jacket lapels. He wants to shake the old man like a sack and watch him plummet down off the highest summit, his body a bloody mess of crooked bones and marred flesh.

Reddington easily throws Ressler's hands off him, not even rising from the armchair. Donald's fist flies in a dangerous proximity of Red's temple, landing exactly into the armchair upholstery.

Reddington's face is still. A blank page. His green eyes, a striking copy of Ressler's, are catching the eye-burning electric lights of the lamps above.

“Take a breath, Agent Ressler.”

Ressler hasn’t noticed anyone following him since that conversation. Maybe, Reddington has indeed complied. Or he has simply hired better men.

 

* * *

 

His eyes on the Mercedes, Ressler leans on the brick wall of the closed barber shop. His leg bent, he pulls a pack of Marlboro from his pocket. He doesn't consider himself a heavy smoker. It's his guilty pleasure of sorts, and the beauty of it is precisely that—an oddly satisfying mix of indulgence and shame on the tip of the tongue when the last draw is taken. The price of this indulgence is a double distance to jog on the next morning and a muscle-wrenching workout for a couple of weeks.

Reddington has no idea—Ressler makes sure it stays that way, never smoking at his presence, at home or at the office. He only does it at nights like this, allowing himself to be someone else. Someone not burdened by unanswered questions and lost lives of those he hasn't saved.

The cigarette pressed between his index and middle finger, Ressler brings it to his lips.

A thought comes to his mind. _What would have Reddington said if he saw you here?_

His inner voice argues, _What a mood-killer, man. Aren't you fed up with him at work?_

He tastes the cigarette with the tip of his tongue.  _Am I, really?_

“ _Don't waste yourself like that Agent Ressler. I wouldn't want you to.”_

A young man and a woman, both aged somewhere between 29-35 years old, their physique similar to _Cirque du Soleil_ performers, are getting into Red's car. Somehow it comforts Ressler that Reddington has a personal life of sorts. He, Ressler, has always believed Reddington to be damaged beyond repair in the emotional department. The man knows how to chill, he can give him that.

Ressler's silver Zippo clicks, and he takes a slow, deep draw, watching the Mercedes fade into the night.

 

* * *

 

“What’s up, cherry boy?” Camilla greets him in her usual low-pitched smoky voice when Donald enters the cockpit.

“Peachy, thanks. Is it raining yet? I'd love to open my umbrella for this young lady,” Ressler winks at Alex. She giggles, her fingers with manicured nails pressing the buttons and switches. Soon enough the cockpit is lit up with lights like a Christmas tree.

“Keep your Johnny out of my girl’s Mary.” Camilla shows him the middle finger. 

All three of them laugh.

“Hope dies last. Red's sent me to check if we’re good to go.”

“We’re up in five minutes,” Alex says, checking if the throttle is in idle position. Switching another tumbler, she repeats the same words she has just told Donald in the mic. “Now Red knows too,” she gives him a soft chuckle. “You stay here with us? I heard the new flight attendant is pretty hot,” she winks at him.

“She is,”—Camilla says before Ressler manages to answer—“but you’re still hotter.”

Alex smiles, her cheeks slightly reddened.

“You two need a room?”

“Someone's jealous?” both women say in a choir. 

Ressler theatrically gives a deep sigh, adjusting himself in the armchair behind them. The engines are roaring, their vibration tickling him all over his body. Alex and Camilla give each other commands, and soon the aircraft begins taxiing to the flight strip. It's five o'clock in the morning. The day has just begun and the sun hasn’t woken up yet, skies colored in blues and honey.

“Buckle up, boy scout,” Alex tells him.

The jet is speeding up, surroundings blending into a blur of colors and shapes. It's Camilla who does the take-off today. Once the jet lifts up from the ground, she, gripping the stick, pulls it onto herself for the aircraft to gain altitude.

 

* * *

 

Ressler has never believed in a friendship between a woman and a man. But Alex and Camilla have proved him otherwise. What he likes most about them, they're absolutely not a bit inquisitive regarding what he does or does not for Reddington. He is literally living under the top-secret stamps and non-disclosure agreements, so it's nothing but a breath of fresh air not to pretend for once.

Their banter with Camilla has become a ritual. Donald actually likes her; they hang out together with her and Alex when he's in the mood for social calls. And that's a rare thing. Camilla's a great pilot as well as mechanic. He always loses her in land mines—while he is shitfaced after the twelfth shot, she looks fresh after the fifteenth. She also aces him in strip poker.

“You’re bluffing,” Donald points at Camilla and then empties his beer in a go.

Whenever they play, he can’t get past anything but her underwear. To him, however, the luck shows a middle finger most of the time—he is left completely naked. Alex is usually curled up in the armchair, reading a book. She doesn't like card games at all; she is simply enjoying her girlfriend bitch-slapping Ressler round by round. And her temper is absolutely different from Camilla's.

 _Opposites are indeed attracted,_ Donald thinks, looking at them.

“Gonna get you next time,” he squints his eyes at Camilla, and then starts picking up his scattered clothes from the floor.

“Dream on, cowboy,” she gives him a foxy smile.

Once Camilla has also helped him with the ignition switch of his Chevy Tahoe. Donald’s not a fan of car workshops—they’d find a whole lot of glitches you haven’t heard of, do nothing and take the money. He isn’t a complete idiot who can’t fix a thing on his own, but it's a rare thing for him to have a couple of weeks off, not bothered and left to himself, so he can fix as many things as he wants, taking his mind off work. Whenever he drops by Mom's, he always gives her a hand with whatever she asks. If it’s not worth the effort, he buys a new thing. His father has always told him he shouldn’t give up so easily on anything.

_“If you see a wall on your way, you have three options: find the hole in it, climb, or blow it up. Never choose doing nothing.”_

It has taken Camilla five bags of paprika chips, two six-packs of beer and seven hours to fix Ressler's Tahoe. The more he hangs out with her and Alex, the more he’s certain these two are not his type. They’re hot and all that, but he needs something different.

He isn’t sure what yet.

 

* * *

 

Ressler might not be a big fan of flying, but he likes the to watch the clouds floating by. Quiet. Peaceful. Clouds, fuzzy and tubby, are sailing the skies like puffy marshmallows. The jet gaining the comfortable altitude, crystal blue horizon opens up before his eyes. Below—an infinity, knitted from thousands of clouds, a white ocean without water.

Alex and Camilla are cracking dirty jokes, the jet is now on autopilot. Smiling, Ressler doesn’t listen, savoring the moment. A premonition tells him it’s calm before the storm.

“Don, you okay?” Alex wonders. Ressler reads a sincere worry in her eyes. It's been a while since someone has actually asked him that. _I don't know anymore,_ he thinks, _I have no fucking idea how I feel. Hell, I wish I could say I feel like shit. But I feel nothing._

His inner voice adds, _Sounds promising, pal._

_Shut the fuck up._

Of course, he won't say it. He isn't looking for a pillow to cry. And he isn't planning to start now.

“For your own sake I hope you're not picturing her naked,” Camilla points at Alex. “I’m watching you, cowboy.”

“It’s all you on my mind, don’t worry.”

“Must be a pretty sight,” Camilla adds proudly.

“Not even close.”

She sticks her tongue out at him.

“How old are you, woman?” Ressler preaches jokingly. “We aren’t close yet?” he asks Alex.

“Less than an hour.” Alex pauses. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“You’re seeing someone?”

“No. Why you ask?”

“It’s just you look…” Alex is trying to pick the right word, frowning.

His inner voice chimes in, _a sour-ass all the time?_

“Lonely?” Ressler prompts. “It’s okay, no worries.”

“Occupied.” She gives him an awkward smile.

It makes her really cute. Ressler envies Camilla at this moment. Not because Alex is an amazingly sweet person; he envies the talks she and Camilla have when they're alone, the moments they share, the stolen glances, kisses in the mornings... All those small things making any relationship. All the things he hasn't had a chance to explore, being either too busy or too careless. _Or a total dick._ No, of course he doesn't shed tears about every heart he's broken over the years. Actually, some women have been hard on him too. Some have dumped him first. Others would dance around in circles, waiting for him to cut them loose. 

After a lot of burns and bruises all over his achy breaky heart, Ressler has come to this—he isn't made for a relationship.

“Not even a boyfriend?” Camilla asks, her inquisitive tone reminding him the interrogation tactics he usually uses on the suspects.

Donald shakes his head. _Honestly?! What on earth is going on in that head?! Women..._ As long as he remembers, he has never pictured himself kissing anyone but a girl or having sex with anyone but a woman.

 _That girl. What's her name?_ No, he has never had the balls to ask her the name, although they've met on the bus to school...  _Rachel. Her name was Rachel._ Her body—curved and shaped like a grown woman's is. Until his mother tells him Rachel is fifteen, he hasn't believed a fifteen-year-old could look like _that._  

 

* * *

 

Ressler has been a twelve-year-old sucker back then—it doesn't matter he has started working out on his own. As all kids of that turbulent age, he seeks attention. He'd act tough, he'd want the girls to like him, and the boys to respect him, although on the inside he feels like a piece of the most miserable shit, full of insecurities—despite being the tallest kid in his class. And, well, his father hasn't really told him yet what to do with a pretty girl after both of you have run out of the conversation fillers.

It's a miracle his clumsy  _“H-hi, I'm Donald, I've never seen you here before,”_   has been answered. Rachel has just moved to their neighborhood. It turns out she has skipped the school because of her illness and now she has to catch up with a lot of things. Probably, she'll go to college later than everyone else. Donald hasn't pressed her for more details, she has just shared with him what she has thought is necessary. He has never cared about things like that. If someone wants to share something personal, it's okay with him. If someone doesn't—that's okay too.

A funny coincidence, but Rachel's window has been exactly on his eye level. He would spend most of the evenings watching her undressing or doing her homework wearing tops and shorts, dreaming of more courage to ask her out. She certainly hasn't been bothered by the fact that people might see her. Who knows, maybe that's been her kick.

The thought of Rachel having a boyfriend has driven him insane to the point he'd seek for a fight with older kids only to get her attention. She has given him that, but not in a way he'd expect her to—a silent sympathetic look which has made him feel even more miserable than before.

One night his little dirty secret is not a secret anymore—Rachel catches him red-handed when he is watching her from his bedroom.

And to his amusement, she tells him to come over. Her parents have left again and won't be back till morning. His Mom has gone to aunt Joanna to help with something, and his Dad... Well, he's slaving at work, and won't be home until two or three o'clock in the morning. His brother, James, is fed and lulled and won't wake up until the next day—Donald likes that about him because it means that as an older brother there's not a lot for him to do.

_“I... Sorry about earlier. I-I, I didn't mean—”_

_“If you don't shut up, I might change my mind, Donald.”_

The strawberry taste of her lipstick, her hands messing with his hair, the heat of her firm body pressed against his...

That night he learns a damn lot of things he would have never imagined in his wildest dreams.

 

* * *

 

“Camilla to Ressler, do you copy?”

“Sorry. You were saying...?”

“That ship has sailed. I swear, when I first saw you, I was sure you’re gay.”

Ressler almost spits the water from his cup.

“Why on earth you’d think that?!”

“What’s the last time you checked yourself in the mirror?”

He gapes at Camilla.

“Your sleek hair. It looks like you’ve spent an hour styling it. And tight pants.” Camilla winks. “Oh, and the way you look at Mr. Reddington.”

This time Donald barely catches his empty cup before it has fallen onto the floor.

“Sorry?”

“It’s like you can’t decide what you want—to strangle or fuck him. Or both.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Ressler arches a brow. Camilla's face is ridiculously serious. Alex doesn't take part in the conversation, but Ressler is sure she keeps her ears open for his answer.

_My God, she means it._

“Jeez, woman, get a hobby.”

“I’m just saying what I see.”

Well, at least Camilla has guessed one thing.

At times he indeed wants nothing more but to choke Reddington with bare hands for being a hell of a self-centered prick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you I'm gonna mess around regarding Don being or not being gay and I'm doing it. But I intent to keep my word and stay out of slash. What I like most about resslington is the ambivalence; it's the dance on the edge, you can't call it love, can't call it hate. It's in between.  
> *  
> In case you're wondering about the smoking part: in the original pilot script Ressler was meant to smoke, be sassy as fuck and give no shit about anyone. And hell, you see those full, kissable lips of his? They're asking for something between them. Admit it, you were thinking not about the cigarette, were you? :D


	4. Quattro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm a snail, but I either write it properly, or not writing at all.  
> I enjoyed writing this part. And I hope to go to Italy one day.
> 
> Roma Amor - A Te Che Mi Vinci//La Concierge//A Cosa Pensi
> 
> A bit of nagging: I know my story isn't as popular as others because it favors Don and Red, not Red/Liz or Don/Liz, but anyways, I believe these two could make a great NBC's Hannibal-like tandem :D
> 
> I'll be happy if you drop a comment or kudos if you liked it. That would make my day.  
> *  
> Cosca (Italian) - a mafioso clan.

Rome greets Ressler and Reddington with torrid heat, roasting their bones to a crispy crust. The further they zigzag through _piazze, duomi_ and _fontane,_ the more sweltering it gets. It would be nice right now to lie low in a cold and dark place for the entire summer. _A freezer would be nice,_ Ressler thinks, catching his breath. The more time he walks under the scorching sun, the less doubts he has—he is one hundred percent a winter person.

A sharp dizzying scent of _grappa_ is in the air, tempting people to fool away for the whole day. Italians, men, and women, tall and tanned, their postures unrestrained, shoulders broad and chins up, are cackling and roaring; arguing and yelling; making up and making out. The heatwave unbearable, everyone is sheltering at the cafés, munching _gelato_ —two or three scoops of hazelnut, pistachio, and chocolate in a row. Streets are flooded with flowers hanging from balconies, growing in pots, snaking over the walls. Tangled shadows are dancing on the charred bricks, and buildings clinging to one another like sardines in a can.

“Bella, non puoi immaginare!”

“Cosa c'è, Francesca?”

Both of the women, folding the laundry, are standing at the opposite balconies, the air smells of washing powder. A breeze is tickling the clothes left to dry on the ropes, the whole street reminding a patched quilt. 

“Meow! Meo-o-ow!"

A big black shadow leaps from one balcony onto another. Now the shadow turns into a cat; it paces among begonias, meowing and growling. It knows exactly what to look for: a white feline is gracefully strolling among succulent plants in pots on the balcony to the cat's left, not bothering to answer the call. Below, one story lower, a scrawny old man is smoking a pipe, his rocking-chair sways back and forth to the languid _milonga_ tune from the radio.

Children's laugh is chiming on the street as Ressler follows Reddington. Reddington doesn't say where they're going, implying Donald to comply and go. Being a dog on a leash isn't something Ressler agrees with, but there's not much of a choice. Thirstily gulping the water from the nearest drinking fountain, he is sweating buckets, his linen shirt and shorts clinging to his body. Reddington doesn't make it easy on him—he either drops out of his sight or emerges again, gesturing him to hurry up.

Donald, wiping the sweat off his brow, brushes the wet ginger bangs from his forehead away. His lips are dry again, and he, scanning the surroundings for another source of water, be it a drinking fountain or a bottle, barely gets off the way of two small girls chasing a boy down the street. It doesn’t take them long to catch a poor kid; now the boy is pressed to the wall—they’re pinching his nose and ears, giggling, while he is squealing _“Non me fate niente, la gallina e' contenta!”._

When Ressler finally strolls with Reddington, almost comfortable with the man's pace, he wonders, what the hell they're doing all this sightseeing for?

“Patience, Donald, patience,” Reddington casually draws, waving his fedora before his face like a fan. “Ah, _Cancelleria Vaticana!_ Last time I didn't get the chance to see it.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Time flows like honey, smooth and sweet, the evening creeping in unnoticeable. The heat turns into pleasant humid coolness, and the setting sun is glaring at people for the last time with yellow and bronze. _Piazza Campo dei Fiori_ is lit with lights. No one could tell it's been a market in the morning, brimming with flowers and smelling of the finest coffee beans. Bars and restaurants have moved their tables on the street. Everyone is hurrying to take the best seat to enjoy live music and dancing. Giordano Bruno, not in flesh, but stone, is indifferently squinting at the tourists taking an umpteenth selfie with his statue.

“...and he died for telling them the truth we’ll find out a thousand years later. Ah, the irony! You agree with me, Donald?”

“Um… I…”

“You are not listening, are you?” Reddington curves his lips in a warm-hearted smile of a teacher who is well aware his lesson is boring, but he has to teach the subject anyway.

“History’s not my cup of tea.”

Sometimes Donald misses the college days—of course, not the exams—but the feeling of independence; and getting high on the stuff the life brings you: friends, dates, opportunities. And classes jammed in between all that.

Reddington knowingly nods as they walk past another set of arch-headed windows and pilasters.

“A wise man once told me there’s no future without past,” Reddington says, strolling, his oxfords softly touch the paved stone of the sidewalk.

Ressler says nothing. As much as he hates to admit it, there’s some sense in those words. You can’t rewrite the past. It keeps haunting you. Among many things taking his sleep away, is his father’s murderer. Ressler’s gut tells him the big shot who orchestrated the hit, is somewhere in the shadows.

“You don’t agree with me, do you?” Reddington asks as they stop at the fountain. It cheerfully sprays the water to the upbeat tune, shattering into drops and droplets.

Donald always wonders at Reddington’s remarkable ability to blend in, be it the slums of Cape Flats, a diner in Greektown, or a storehouse full of hot merch for sale.

“I guess we’re all making our own fate.”

“Indeed, we are. Yet some things are hard to control. At times impossible. And some are stubbornly unchangeable,” Reddington gives him a meaningful smile and then goes back to watching the fountain change from green to blue and backward.

Ressler closely studies Reddington. He’s used to him talking in riddles, but he’s never been this sincere before. _The man’s getting soft._ _Hell, why would I care, anyway?_ Reddington is just a job, not a friend, or anything. He can’t imagine Reddington holds a lot of warmth towards him, especially after Brussels. _You don’t bond over a missed shot into your head._

The strumming of a guitar fills the street.

Reddington turns his head to the sound.

“We’d better get going if we don’t want to miss the show.”

Ressler sighs, following Reddington to the nearest restaurant. Donald leaves it to him to chirp with the waitress, a middle-aged, stout woman with jet-black hair and a round face. Red shamelessly flirts with her. The order seems to take forever. Ressler rubs his eyes. He wants this to be over and back into the hotel and get some fucking sleep at last.

The waitress, Bruna, gives Reddington a cheeky smile and disappears for a moment. She comes back, carrying two bottles of wine.

Just as she’s about to pour Ressler a glass, Reddington gestures her, “My friend here doesn’t drink, _grazie._ ” Ressler looks at Reddington in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Donald, but at least one of us should bear a sane mind tonight.”

Bruna gives Ressler a sympathetic smile, and asks in a heavy Italian accent, “You want something, _caro_?”

Before Ressler even utters a word, Reddington chimes in.

“Two scoops of _stracciatella_ and strawberry on top, _per favore._ ”

 _The fuck…_ “But―”

“It’s to die for, trust me,” Reddington salutes Donald.

In a few moments, Bruna comes back. She puts a tall cup with two perfect scoops of ice-cream, and a fresh strawberry on top before Ressler. Reddington gets a different one―three lime-green scoops, sprinkled with chocolate.

“ _Grazie, Bruna,_ ” Reddington says and takes a spoonful of the ice-cream into his mouth. 

“I don’t even _like_ ice-cream,” Donald grumbles, digging his scoop with a teaspoon.

“You haven’t even tried it.” Reddington scoops another. “Besides, I’m not sure I've had enough wine to feed you with a spoon. Unless you want me to.” He chuckles, pointing with the spoon at Donald.

_For fuck's sake!_

The musicians come up on the stage and the show begins. Strong percussion hits Ressler's ears, wrapping together with the shrill of a saxophone. The guitar wails, catching up with unsteady rhythm. Out of hopeless effort to pretend he’s deaf, Ressler takes a spoon of the gelato into his mouth. It tastes odd; too soft and too warm than the ice-cream he’s once used to eat in the childhood. He picks a strawberry and puts it into his mouth. Its tart taste pleasantly coats his tongue after the excessive sweetness.

Ressler casts a look at Reddington. Red is completely dissolved in the music―his back leaned on the chair, a glass of wine in his hand, and he slightly sways his head to the tune.

“Just listen, Donald. Let it caress your ears like an arousing whisper of the woman next to you.”

Ressler glances at the bottle―almost empty, yet Reddington doesn't look wasted. The tips of his ears have reddened, but other than that he is good.

“Why the hell we’re here, anyway? We’re doing all this… For what?”

Reddington takes another sip. Then he draws his phone out of the pocket―rather a relic than a modern device. He casts a glance at it. He lets a sigh, hides the phone into his pocket and gulps down the contents of his glass. Unlike half of the Earth’s population, Red doesn’t depend on the modern life blessings. No wonder he’s been a pain in the neck to track―no digital footprint, no credit cards, no passports.

Ressler, on the contrary, is grateful for a ton of time-saving things, but mostly―for the GPS. It has made his life easier a thousand times.

“Lorenzo’s busy tonight.” Seeing Ressler’s confused face, Reddington adds, “ _Cosca_ meeting.”

“Can’t we just gear up and pay him a visit then?”

“No one is allowed there. Even me. _Familia_ only,” Reddington says flatly, pouring himself another glass of wine. “We’ll be shot dead faster than we breathe a word,” he adds in a same indifferent voice. He scoops another spoonful of the ice-cream and brings it to his lips.

The music keeps drilling into Ressler’s head; it strums his nerves like a string, stretching them to a breaking point. He’s tired as fuck, his whole body a one big knot of pain and exhaustion, is scorched to the bone from today’s heat; his feet are burning from the non-stop marathon on the paved sidewalks.

Donald doesn’t catch the moment when he rises from his chair. A candle in a glassy holder quivers and blows out.

“What do you care? I’m just your errand-boy,” Ressler snaps. He grabs an uncorked bottle from the table and walks off.

Reddington looks at Donald’s back fading in the dark of the street.

“You’re not.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-phrasing Red with his famous "Did I say sex? Sex", I go "Slash vibes? Slash vibes."  
> Please note it's coming from Red's end only :'D


	5. Cinque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright folks, there might be some light (or no, lol) slash in here. It’s not the actual focus of the story, so I don’t change the category. Its mere purpose is to illustrate Red’s motives. Love is love anyway :D 
> 
> Stay tuned for the next chapter :D
> 
> Coolio ft L.V. — Gangsta’s Paradise

_Shanghai, April 1995. A week after Brian Ressler’s murder_

 

“ _Xiè xiè,”_ Reddington thanks the driver and gives him a couple of yuans. The driver is a typical Chinese—narrow eyes, black hair, and he looks at Red like he’s an alien. Red nods the man and opens the taxi’s door.

Nothing’s changed much since he’s been here. Same steel-and-glass skyscrapers, worming crowds, and a stench of fried chicken and rice noodles.

Yangshan smells of sea salt and oil. Vessels come and go, some of them carrying cargo of a dubious nature. Out of 125 Shanghai port berths, 64, located here in Yangshan, belong to Red. Chinese authorities are much more flexible than their US colleagues—a few extra thousands of yuan, and Shanghai-based “A&L Logistics” is given a free pass.

The smog is overcasting the skies—always thick, mud-like grayish substance, and not a trace of the sun. Reddington’s eyes are keenly observing the surroundings. Cranes, smelling of fresh paint, are creaking, unloading ships, and the discharged containers hit the land. The workers, Chinese, are yelling. Red’s Mandarin is quite good to grasp what is said—mostly swearing.

The office of “A&L Logistics” is found in no time. Red halts at the door. The letters on the company’s sign bring another unwanted memory.

_“I can’t, Red. I…”_

_“I don’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Adam. I need you here.”_

Cold wind creeps under Red’s collar, chilling the back of his head. He adjust the windbreaker, smoothing the fabric so it won’t betray the hidden gun under it. Fully charged, and the spare mag is in his pocket. Thank God the door’s not made of glass—he has specifically ordered this office to blend in with the rest. Red turns the handle and enters a spacious office—white walls, wooden accents on chairs, two bookshelves. A coffee table and two gray armchairs are in the right corner of the room; the rest of the space is taken by a wide white desk.

“Ray!” Adam looks at him, sitting behind a big screen with a bitten apple sign on it. His brows are raised and his thin lips curve in a surprised smile. “You didn’t say you’d come…” He hurries to rise from his chair and gives Reddington a hug.

Personal. Intimate.

Red doesn’t break the hug.

_“You sure it’s him?”_

_“The proof is in your hands. Do you want me to handle this?”_

_“No.”_

Red has almost forgotten how it feels to be with Adam. Those defined shoulder blades to dig the fingers into; the shaky breath and the trembling when he’s on top of him; the way he looks at him. Not like the others, nameless elite male hookers he’s used to laid out of sheer appreciation of their physique.

This boy sees in him the grace he has never thought existed.

“I missed you,” Adam whispers, wrapping his hands around Red’s neck and leans in for a kiss. Red gives in to it. _Me too,_ the words stop half way through his throat. _You came here to kill him, remember?_

Adam has always been a vulnerability. The only fracture in his armor he’s been forging for decades.

Bedding a former client is one of the things Red’s never expected he’d ever do. But he has. He meets Adam at one of the luxury clubs. Adam’s a natural charmer. While mixing drinks, he’s discreetly nudges the clientele to party like tomorrow doesn’t exist. He is thorough, charming, and easily finds a way into Red’s scorched heart. Not intentionally—Red has learned to see the difference between a ploy and sincerity. They talk a lot—well, Adam does—about his family, his abusive father, and his brother, Kevin.

_“What’s the last time you saw him?”_

_“Three or four years. We don’t talk much. I’ve no idea what happened to him.”_

On their last night together Adam tells Red that he knows who he is. And that he doesn’t care. Instead, he wants Red to help him with a new life. He doesn’t have enough money to pay, but he’ll figure it out.

 

* * *

 

 

“Adam,” Reddington breaks the kiss. He doesn't register the moment Adam is pressing him to the wall, his fingers tugging on the belt of his pants. “We need to talk.”

Adam’s face sinks, his azure eyes lose a shade. He takes a step back. “Sorry. I—”

“I know,” Reddington grins. It hurts to stretch the mouth; he opens his jaw with an effort, like it’s carved of stone. He makes himself comfortable in the armchair and invites Adam to do the same with a gesture. “It won’t take long, I promise. When you’re finished here, we could go to our favorite place in _Dong Fang Ming Zhu._ ”

They spend almost an hour talking business. Shippers, consignees, freights, expected delivery dates... Reddington is studying the papers, listening to Adam guiding him through numbers.

“...Closer to summer they gonna charge PSS, that means an extra couple of thousands, but other than that we’re good.” Adam rises from his armchair and saunters to the desk. He picks up another paper from the printer.

Red’s eyes are fixed on Adam’s back. The white shirt is clinging to his body, and the navy jeans look exceptionally good on his behind.

 “Red?”

“You’re quite a distraction.” Reddington gives him a lusty grin. It takes him an enormous effort to naturally produce the utterance.

 _ _I__ _ _t hurts.__ It hurts to look. To remember. His heart doesn’t bleed with ache—it rots, decaying like a fresh tomb with a corpse.  

The man’s nature is unfathomable—everybody wants the others to be honest with them, yet they’re not offering it in return.

Red doesn’t know at what moment this infatuation has evolved into something more than a fling. He has always been honest with Adam—to a certain extent, of course. When it gets obvious he’s fallen for the boy, Red approaches it as a challenge for his self-centered personality.

At first he doesn’t involve Adam into his business. But when he does, he sets the rules. _Specific rules._ The rules everyone knows him for.

_“Don’t make me regret it, Adam.”_

_“I won’t.”_

Loyalty is dubious in nature. It is hard to find it these days, although to track the exact moment it’s lost is far, far more difficult. People change, feelings fade, allegiances shift. Red understands that.

What he doesn’t tolerate is lies. Straight, arrogant lies, in a desperate attempt to cover up a failure to comply a direct order. Lies are the weed, poisonous and extremely dangerous, growing and strengthening their roots, choking everything on their way. And Red’s blindly let them to expanse immensely, thriving in his own garden.

_It's time to cut them off._

Adam leans his back in the armchair before Reddington. A breeze comes in from an opened window. The sun blinks through the puffs of gray and a tiny ray of sunshine plays with Adam’s blond bangs coloring them in gold.

Reddington’s legs are crossed, his hands on the armrests. His face is impossible to read. He looks at Adam, at the sculptured, Apollo-like physique.

_Does it hurt him too? To do all that? Does it bother him he’s killed an innocent man? Who’s had a family. A life. A son._

Reddington’s hand slides behind his unbuttoned windbreaker.

Adam raises a brow, seeing a gun. “New tricks?” He grins.

“I’m going to ask you a question.” Red adjusts the silencer on the gun’s muzzle. The gun’s decocker clicks, the muzzle pointing at Adam. He stares at Reddington, terrified. His eyes are wide open and his lower lip trembles.

“W-what?”

“Adam,”—the muzzle looks straight into his chest—“tell me the truth.”

“I-I d-don’t…”

“You went behind my back. No,”—Red gestures with the gun to Adam who makes an attempt to stand up—“don’t do that.”

Adam’s face is pale with fright, just like the copy paper he’s using for printing the numbers and shipping routes. His hands are trembling, he sniffs, the tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I fucked up… God, I fucked this all up.” Adam is sobbing, wiping his nose. Tears are trickling from his eyes. He loses all his charms, resembling a scarecrow, tall and clumsy. “Ten mils in income from last year. I faked the reports.” He averts his eyes.

Red knows it. He hasn’t really checked on Adam for a while, flying between Spain and Brussels. The cargo is delivered, checks are bounced, customers are happy. He wouldn’t even bother to check on him. If he had, he would have known Adam's been a heavy gambler.

_I must be slipping._

“Look at me,” Reddington says. Adam wipes his bloodshot eyes. “Why haven’t you come to me?”

“I… I don’t know!” his voice is ringing. “I thought… Fuck!”

“Why kids?”

Red knows the answer already, but he wants to hear it from him.

“Apparently, an exotic tight pussy is in high demand,” Adams spits the words, his lips twist in a disgusting smirk. It ruins his face, like a deep cut knife wound  on an innocent’s child skin. He doesn’t cry anymore. “It’s a win-win, Ray. Five times more for a month then we do for a year here! Honestly, why don’t you—”

_Pht!_

Adam wails, pressing his hand to his stomach, a crimson stain is sprawling on the white fabric of his shirt. His fingers are reddened with his own blood. He reaches out to Reddington.

“I always did it for you!” He whispers in a frenzy, his voice hoarse: “Ever since...for you.”

_What a shame, my dear boy, what a shame._

The gun fires.


	6. Sei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Cosa fai?”―What's up?  
> “Come ti va?”―What's your fantasy/What do you want?  
> “Tu che proponi?”―What do you suggest?  
> “Come ti chiami?”―What's your name?  
> “Ti dirò il tuo nome se mi dici il tuo.”― I'll tell you my name if you tell me yours.

_Present day_

 

Ressler turns to the left side of the bed, grunting, his eyes closed. He tries to remain snuggled up in a cashmere blanket, its softness coating his exhausted body, but his inner alarm clock has just gone off. _Get your ass up, time to work._ He turns on his back and opens his eyes to meet a cappuccino-colored ceiling with a golden chandelier hanging from it. He wouldn’t have booked a suite like that―luxuriously eclectic, with all possible beige shades of wood, leather, and fabric.

Someone has bothered to draw the curtains so he could have a good sleep.

 _It’s getting awkward, him and my bedroom._ Reddington occupies the next suite to his, but Donald doesn’t know if Red has even slept there tonight. _Quite a question. Where’s he?_

_B-z-z-r-r! Bring-g! B-z-z-r-r! Bring-g!_

The buzzing goes somewhere in the bed, twisting into his hangover brain like a screwdriver.

_B-z-z-r-r! Bring-g! B-z-z-r-r! Bring-g!_

He’d empty _Fontana di Trevi_ right now. _Fuck._

Donald throws the blanket off. Nothing. He gets on his feet and checks the pillows. His hand slides under the first one. Instead of a glossy metal a netting of smooth yarns is under his fingers.

Women’s panties.

_What the…_

Clothes are scattered in different parts of the room, and four empty bottles are accompanied by two wine glasses on the shiny coffee table. His mind is trying to pick up the pieces of yesterday. The bottle of wine he has stolen from Red, countless arcs and passages on his way back to the hotel…

 _Oh, for fucks sake!_ Donald ruffles his hair with both hands, but the memory is off like a bulb.

 

* * *

 

“Cosa fai?” an alluring female voice reaches his ears. Donald turns his head to the sound. The voice is like Italy itself―a soft pop of the cork and the glugging of the copper-tinge liquid into the wine glass; the first sip―slow and unhurried, like a taste of someone’s lips for the first time; the tartness of a cherry on the tip of the tongue.

“Come ti va?” The voice is now teasing, followed by distant strings strumming.

Donald pierces into the void of the arc. A street lamp light is barely enough, but he manages to get a glimpse of a woman’s shape. Her back is casually leaned on the smooth surface of the arc. She’s wearing a dress―not a vulgar “to-eyeball-a-pussy” one; hers seductively embraces her curves, the shape resembling a guitar. The dress goes up to her neck and has long sleeves, although it’s not nun-like long―the knees are visible. Delicate leather laces are snaking over her legs ending in heeled sandals.

“Tu che proponi?” Donald asks, his eyes on her. She looks young, but he knows better. The age is always in the eyes giving a lot away if you know what to look for. Her eyes are as dark as the arc.

She licks her lips, her eyes fixed on him.

Even the bottle of wine wouldn’t help his dry throat now. He’s seen hookers, and she doesn’t look like one. Or, maybe, she’s one of _sgualdrine_ , who knows… Those charge a couple of hundreds, or even thousands for a night. Either way, he doesn’t give a lick who she is. He goes off on this game of theirs―not the sex even, but they’ll arrive there too.

The woman draws closer to him, stepping into his private space. Only now he realizes she must have no bra under her dress―it’s a bit chilly, her nipples proving it.

“Come ti chiami?” Be it another woman, he wouldn’t have even bothered asking.

“Ti dirò il tuo nome se mi dici il tuo.” Her lips curve in a grin―he’d hardly call it dirty, rather, inviting. She turns her back to him, the heels clicking on the paved sidewalk, her body swaying to the sound of a saxophone tune filling the empty street.

And he follows her.

* * *

 

The mattress is thrown off the bed.  

_Bring-g! B-z-z-r-r! Bring-g!_

At last Ressler grabs the vibrating phone. The caller ID is bouncing in front of his sore eyes.

_**Nick’s Pizza.** _

_Shit._  

**_15 MISSED CALLS._ **

_Man, Reddington’s probably pissed as fuck…_ His inner voice argues, _He can go to hell. How many times he’s been screwing around on the job and left your ass stranded? It’s off the books, he can’t rat on you to the bosses._ Ressler coughs, almost spitting his lungs out. His brain-train is already on the rails, so he keeps thinking. _By the way, why it’s you, huh?_ Ressler’s thumb slips, hitting the DECLINE button. _Indeed, why?_ He hits REDIAL, but the line is busy. _Damn it._ The 10%-battery icon is beeping, the screen blinks and goes dark.

“Fuck!”

Donald throws the useless brick across the room. It hits the table lamp splitting its shade. _Why me?_   He has quit the ‘why’ question long ago, and now the itch is asking to be scratched again. _Could he and my dad be involved somehow?_   He shudders at the thought. His old man has been many things, but he hasn’t been mixed in anything illegal.

_“It’s always ‘they’, Donald, always. They treat you the best way, their words sweet, checkbooks at hand. It starts with a favor. A ridiculous favor, paid off with twice as the amount of money it’s worth of. You should never agree. Never. Once you do, they have you. The favors will be bigger. Bolder. Until one day you’ll be asked to cross the line. You can’t refuse, you can’t go and tell about it. Do it and you’ll hate yourself for the rest of your days. And trust me, you don’t want to know where that road leads you to. I know a lot of folks who chose it. It didn’t end well for them.”_

_Or so you want to believe it,_ Ressler’s inner voice chimes in. _Sometimes people choose to see only what they want to be true. No,_ Ressler argues, _he was honest, he had courage…_

_Unlike me._

All those things he’s done under Reddington’s wing, vile, illegal and, at times, horrifying in their immoral nature. He’s become the man his father’s warned him of. He’s never taken the money, but he’s crossed the line. More than once, actually, spitting on his father’s memory. He's killed in cold blood and hasn't bothered a bit about informing the Bureau.

His father’s always told him there’s nothing more as dangerous as being indebted to someone. Someone powerful. Someone pulling the right strings.

The truth is, he owes Reddington. He’s saved the prick’s life more than once to clear the debt, and yet his mind always returns to the way Reddington’s dealt with his, Ressler’s, bookie.

* * *

_A few years back_

 

Donald hangs out at this place in _Cardozo_ to chill and play a round of roulette, just for fun. He has thrown thousands in Omaha hold’em a year or so ago, but now he’s clean. The place is packed, as usual. He grabs himself a drink at the bar and looks for the table to join in. No one minds the musicians on the stage―everyone's busy with the game, chips dropping, roulette wheels turning, cards folded.

“Hey, you’ve seen Henry?” Donald asks Blake, the dealer. Blake looks like a teenager, always wearing a mischievous grin on his lean boyish face. 

“Nope, he hasn’t stick around for a while. You worried for him or what, Frankie?”

Donald hates the alias, but it’s best if no one here knows his real name.

“Blow me, Blake.” Ressler salutes him with a drink.

Ressler learns that no one’s heard from Henry for months. He knows the man―Henry would rather hit a glass of acid than move his ass out from the mother lode. Ressler tries to dig up anything, but the guy’s a ghost. From his experience, people don’t disappear into nowhere. Unless they were helped to. Prescott’s place is wiped clean and occupied by a frail old lady, and his car is sold to a Hispanic single-mother.

_“I did what I had to, Donald.”_

_“You burned him alive!”_

_“Would you sleep better knowing your career is down the drain?”_

* * *

 

On one hand, this Reddington’s ‘care’ is pissing Donald off to the point he’s ready to rip the man apart. Although he can’t deny Reddington has kept his virgin ass from the Bureau’s Internal Affairs. And he’s actually grateful for that. And for the drug test, too.

On the other hand, his ass is now all but Reddington’s. Thank God, not literally.

Lately Red’s tasks have become more and more off-the-book. Donald hasn’t really thought about it until now―or he has ignored the obvious―but what if Reddington’s grooming him? The FBI knows Red might be playing them, they’re not a bunch of complete idiots, so they’ve arranged a backup plan. And Ressler, as Reddington’s handler, has personally signed it. No doubt, Red’s aware of it, but even he can’t access its contents. The time’s ripe, he’s gonna ask to return the favor.

_Man, you’re fucked._

His feet wobbly, Ressler picks the clothes from the floor. It hurts even to blink. _Never ever. Whatever she looks like. Never._ His shirt, red lipstick smeared on the collar, reeks of a cheap women’s perfume and expensive wine. Muttering curses, Ressler goes to the bathroom. His face―a wrinkled piece of paper someone has spit on and squashed with a combat boot―stares at him from the mirror.

_Now you’re a charmer, pal._

_Shut the fuck up!_

Freeing himself from the underwear, he steps into the stall. Iced tiles send chills all over his body, and he turns on the faucet, heading for the shower. Each drop is an elephant’s foot dancing on his skin, his head spinning like a merry-go-round. Donald rests his palms against the wall. Warm droplets are trickling over the back of his head, sliding down his shoulder blades and spine.

Minutes are dragged forever. After a while, Ressler feels confident enough to keep his body straight. It’s been a mistake―once he lets go of the wall, the shower booth starts revolving before his eyes, lamps and flower tile patterns floating. Swearing, Ressler leans his back against the tiles.

_Fuck my life._

His chest and back are stinging from the soap. He brushes the chest with his fingers and spots two long nail marks and takes a mental note to check for the hickeys on the neck. A smug grin on his face twists in a wince. His jaw hurts like he’s been chewing granite with it, and his dick is sore. Turning off the water, Ressler takes a step from the shower stall.

His foot slips.

“Fuck!!!”

He grabs the towel dryer to keep the balance and the metal tube creaks, but stays in the wall. All of his senses alarmed, Ressler steps out of the stall and waddles to the sink. The towel wrapped around his waist, he rests his hands onto the sink’s edges, staring at the mirror. The walking dead look is gone. He picks the toothbrush and gives a deep sigh, squeezing the toothpaste on it. “Mint Chocolate” is just made for puking the guts out.  

Back in the room, his head more or less clear, Ressler looks for the phone’s charger.

The door’s lock clicks.

Reddington walks in, completely undisturbed by the hangover. He looks impeccable as always: a checkered light-gray vest, pants, white shirt, matching oxfords. He takes off the fedora from his head and saunters to the armchair. Once he makes himself comfortable in it, he faces Donald who stands still at the bedside drawer.

“Fun night?”

 _Not your fucking…_ Ressler doesn’t dare to avert his eyes from Reddington’s assessing stare. Red’s eyes shamelessly travel across his chest―Donald could swear the marks are itching now even harder. His ears burn like he’s a fucking horny teenager who’s caught in the middle of making out. He adjusts the slipping towel.

“If you don’t apply some cream on those, they’ll hurt like hell, trust me,” Reddington says with a soft, almost father-like smile. “I hope you used a condom. Hookers are often coming with a colorful bouquet of all sorts, but,”―he smiles with the corners of his lips―“who am I to tell you that.” Red tilts his head, lowering his eyes for a moment at the towel: “I appreciate the view, but we have less than an hour. I would hate to keep Lorenzo waiting. The man’s mood is as changeable as Katie’s Nutters.” He closes his eyes for a moment, caught in memories. “God, what a girl. That devilish tongue of hers, ah!”

Ressler grimaces at Red’s words. Grabbing a pair of boxers, a tan suit, and a blue shirt from the closet, he notices Reddington smelling the neck of the wine bottle on the small table.

“She drugged you,” Red chuckles. “I bet you blame it on the wine, but it’s not the case. If I were you, I’d check your wallet, Donald.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the canon doesn't give me a shower scene with Ressler, I will do it myself ;)


	7. Sette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long — real life is a bitch. As usual, I hope you like it. Leave a comment/kudos if you do, please, so I'll know if it makes sense to tell my story further.  
> * una botta e via — one-night stand.

It’s the average lazy morning in Rome: cafes open their doors to visitors, and tiny sunbeams blaze on fancy cars’ hoods and windshields, leaping further to dance on church spires. Gratefully inhaling the fresh air, Ressler, alert, squints at the gleaming sun, regretting not having sunglasses. Red’s black Mercedes is squeezed between colorful Porsche and Ferrari at the hotel’s parking lot.

“Mr. Folman, Mr. Sparks,” a valet in a brown vest, pants and a cap, approaches Red and Ressler. “Your stay was pleasant, I hope?”

“ _Magnifico,_ much appreciated.” Reddington glances at Ressler, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Ressler bites the tongue not to swear aloud. For fuck’s sake..!

The valet, a polite smile on his face, takes the key out of his pocket. “Tank’s full, bar stocked.”

 _“Grazie.”_ Red saunters to the car, and before he gets in, casts a glance at Ressler. “Donald, tip the gentleman.”

Ressler, his teeth gritted, takes out his wallet and fishes some euros. _Tip the gentleman, my ass._ Giving Ressler the keys, the valet touches the brim of the cap and leaves. Grunting silently, Donald gets in.

The car’s cabin smells of expensive leather, citrus and cinnamon―there’s a glamorous car perfume diffuser installed on the dashboard. A small touch-screen to Ressler’s right blinks invitingly when he inserts the key into ignition and presses “Start” and switches from auto to manual. Safety belt buckled, Donald’s left foot is on the clutch; gripping the stick with his right hand, he shifts it into the “R” position. His hands on the steering wheel, he flicks his eyes to his right, left, in the rear-view mirror, speeding up.

A soft purring of the engine fills the cabin’s silence. Ressler can’t help but occasionally glance at Reddington through the rear-view mirror. Mercedes isn’t a limo, so Red can’t hide behind a partition even if he wants to. _Good for me,_ Ressler grins to himself. Red, as if reading his mind, cracks a wide grin at him. _Enjoying yourself, huh?_ Donald doesn’t let it slip off his mouth, his eyes on the road. After some time he flicks his eyes at the rear-view mirror again. The collar of his shirt unbuttoned, back leaned against the coffee-with-milk leather seat, the Concierge is uncorking a bottle of wine. He looks mellow―as if he’s not going into a potential associate-turned-enemy meet, but to a retreat.

Ressler almost rolls his eyes. _Jeez, he’s gonna get tanked before we even get our asses there. Wait, what’s this fucker’s address?_

The traffic light blinks red and the Mercedes halts smoothly.

“Ever thought of a job change, Donald?”

_Eh?_

“Meaning?”

“Last time I was with you in the car, I’ve almost gotten a concussion. I’m not particularly keen on relieving that ordeal again, yet now, I must say, I’m surprised. I haven’t spilled a drop of _Velletri._ ”

Ressler snorts, gripping the stick, his left foot on the clutch, his right―on the gas pedal. The yellow light changes to green. On the next intersection Ressler figures, they’ve almost out of Rome.

“So, where we meet him?”

Red turns his head from the window. “Sabaudia.”

Ressler expects the usual long-ass Discovery lecture but Red is silent.

“That’s it? No extras of how good home-made cheese is?”

Red lets out a laugh. “Well, since you're asking...”

Ressler steers onto the highway, his eyes scan the signs, ears open for Reddington’s tales. The Concierge lives it up—even the fact that he’s a criminal doesn’t change it—and Donald, whether he wants it or not, appreciates that. Maybe, respects. Just a little.

His head is spinning from the never-ending twists, turns, and curves of the road. The highway neighbors with mighty mountains on one side; on the other―an alluring view of blue waters gleaming in the sunlight. The coastline mimics the infinite pattern of the highway and seems to simultaneously drift with the car.

“Ah, what a view!”

Ressler agrees―the view is indeed breathtaking.

“I wish we came here for pleasure, not business,” Reddington continues, and Ressler hears a gentle tap of the glass put into a cup holder. “I’m sorry we had to breakfast in a hurry. I just wanted to make sure we’ll get out of the city before the rush hour.”

Donald glances at Red through the mirror. “How much longer?”

“Twenty minutes, I guess.” Another bottle gets uncorked. “How’s your chest?”

_Eh???_

“Fine. Why do you—”

“The marks lovely _cortigiana_ awarded you with for your fervor last night. Itchiness must be too much, trust me, I know it.”

“Isn’t it personal?” Ressler hisses at Red, part of him knowing he’s right, part of him hating himself for the weakness. _Never again. Never._

“Of course, it is.” Red’s voice is liquid honey—slow, smooth, and sweet. Ressler squirms in his seat uncomfortably. “However, if you’re on the job, you see, it becomes personal for me too.”

Ressler grasps the message between the lines―he’d better keep his dick in the pants next time.

_Asshole._

Red takes a sip again―Ressler sees it in the rear-view mirror.

“You haven’t dipped your fork into Carbonara at breakfast.” Red changes the subject as quick as flipping a coin.

“It’s just noodles with cheese.” _Jesus, can't he leave me the fuck alone for once?_

“The original Carbonara, Donald. Not a disaster with cream they serve in D.C. And certainly not the box of spaghetti you keep in the top left cabinet.”

_WHAT?!_

_At least not a bathroom._ Ressler barely hollers with laughter imagining Red going through his bathroom cabinet. He’s been clean from drugs for a long time already, although he keeps some pretty rare-to-get painkillers just in case―he’s gotten those due to an unofficial acquaintance with the person he has been supposed to investigate.

Red deciphers Ressler’s annoyed silence correctly.

“You should do a better job organizing your kitchen, Donald. It took me a good ten minutes to find that wine bottle.”

 

* * *

 

Classy villas are hugging the shore framed by the skyline melting into the azure sea. It isn’t bothered by people yet, although in a few hours it’s going to be packed. Red’s Mercedes takes a left turn, and villas vanish behind tall fences, as quick as a high-schooler bolting away from her crush at prom night. Passing a couple of sluggish buckets-on-wheels, the Mercedes halts in front of the 12-feet brick fence. Heavy ironwork gates are closed.

Ressler meets Red’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“You sure he’s―”

Before Donald finishes the sentence, the gates open.

The Mercedes is creeping on the gravel driveway. Ressler’s alert, counting the cavalry. _Let’s see… Two at the gate, two at three o'clock, four at nine. A couple of more at twelve. Fuck. Too many._ Guards show up only for a split second disappearing into the cypress trees huddled together. _Smart bastards._ Ressler grips the steering wheel tighter. He glances at Reddington again: the man’s face is unreadable. If he is concerned, he doesn’t show it.

The car’s wheels crunch on a piazza-like courtyard encircled by a luscious garden. The silver foliage of the fern breaks the green crowns of fan-shaped leaves, dissolving into straps of yellow, red, and black. Rows of olive and lemon trees lean over the evergreen trimmed hedge, reminding Donald of his mother. He always wonders how she finds the time for gardening after a full working day at the school. Whenever he’s dropping by, she doesn’t let him leave without a plant and fresh fruits she has handpicked for him. Ressler doesn’t agree that a plant in a pot is going to change his bachelor pad for better, but takes it anyway.

_“Here you go, Donnie.”_

_“Thanks, Mom, but I can’t promise it won’t kick it as the last one did.”_

_“Needs water once a week. I know whom I’m dealing with, young man.”_

The Mercedes halts in the middle of the courtyard. Getting out of the car, Red and Ressler look around. The chateau’s grandeur is highlighted by a lookout tower left from the medieval castle and massive stone-gray stairs leading to a three-story residence; large floor-to-ceiling windows are framing the chateau’s ivory exterior, and a built-in-the-wall spiral staircase connects the main house with the guest one. Since Ressler has already been at one of Reddington’s villas as a part of his babysitting assignment, the building’s layout is familiar to him. Most of the time villas are the same: nine to twelve bedrooms, bathrooms, dining room for at least fifteen people... Also―a separate room for watching movies, or gym. Judging by the architectural style, this chateau is furnished to match a certain historical period. _There must be a pool somewhere too. And a helipad,_ Ressler thinks to himself.

Their shoes clicking on the polished gray stone, Red and Ressler walk up the stairs, approaching a Renaissance-style fountain. Realizing Reddington doesn’t follow him, Ressler stops, turning his head to the criminal. The Concierge seems preoccupied, so Donald doesn’t bother to call him by the name; he simply goes up to him. _He’s gonna get himself killed one day if he keeps going like this. Or_ , Ressler winces, _we both gonna buy the farm._

He knows this look on Red’s face very well―every time a piece of art is in his sights, Reddington’s all over it.

“I don't think it’s the right time for this,” Ressler folds his arms on the chest, shifting his eyes from Red to the fountain. _Women. Of course._

Three women, wearing revealing robes, are captured by a sculptor in the middle of dancing. They’re whirling and spinning, flirtatious smiles on their faces. Ressler freezes, captivated by the grace in their movements, silently applauding in his mind to the sculptor’s talent. Imprinting beauty in stone is an impossible task, indeed, but the sculptor has outdone himself.

“The precision, smoothness... My God, look, the folds!” Reddington brushes the fabric carved in stone. “Impressive. _The Ufizzi_ worthy masterpiece.”

Ressler, not as buzzed up as Reddington, shares a tiny bit of his excitement. He isn’t an ignorant moron, after all, he can appreciate such things. It’s just he prefers not doing it in front of the heavy-armed goons breathing in his neck.

If he had more free time, he’d travel to Florence, the cradle of Renaissance, Venetia, or Barcelona. Or any place he hasn’t been to yet. It’s not an issue for him to enjoy shooting at the range together with Dad back in the day, learn to strip and shoot from .223 Remington, and at the same time appreciate the artworks of the world’s geniuses.

He has read a lot, worked hard to get the highest grades— _screw the stereotype boys are lazy while girls are diligent_ —and on top of that he has found the time to visit exhibitions, be it Civil War or medieval torture tools. He’s naturally curious. Curiosity has driven him through all his way at school. Picking up the clues into a solid puzzle has always excited him. He isn’t tired of hours of digging, researching, analyzing, comparing—the thrill he gets after is worth it. Partly because of his father’s sacrifice, partly—of his love for puzzle solving, he joins the FBI.

He doesn’t like to show off, he prefers to apply the knowledge he’s gotten whenever necessary. Reddington teases him a lot about being a boy scout—he has been one, indeed. As a boy scout, you learn how to cooperate, adjust, lead, and when to step back and allow someone to put their skills into good use.

Before Dad died, they’ve done some camping together whenever his job hasn’t come in the way. Mom has never gone with them: _“It’s boys time”,_ she’d say. On those trips, Dad has told him many things: about the job he does, and why it’s so important that he’s skipping James’ performances at school’ theatre, and his, Donnie’s, hockey games, and why he, Donald, should be Mom’s shoulder to lean on one day. And, of course, keeping an eye on James. He’s told him about decency, honesty, about being kind to others, especially those who can’t protect themselves. To always trust his gut, to be honest with himself. And to listen to what his own heart is telling him once in a while.

_”If there’s one thing in the world which kills us faster than a bullet, it’s our heart. Never let your emotions undermine your decisions, Don. Unless the person you’re doing it for is worthy of that sacrifice.”_

_“How do I know that?”_

_“You don’t, and that’s the way it works, son. You can only hope.”_

And Ressler has absorbed all that, and, perhaps, that’s why his black-and-white world, where evil is punished and good prevails, is in shambles now. He isn’t sure there’s a heart in him, a sparkle of any emotion people are supposed to feel when they are around others. It’s like someone has put him out like a cigarette, crushed and crumpled in the ashtray. Most of the time it’s the void to fill with booze and flings. Hell is gonna freeze faster than he’ll find the person his father has told him about.

Reddington doesn’t grace Ressler with a look or answer, completely lost in his own world.

“Yeah, it is, but shouldn’t we come up and say hello to Costa?” Ressler hints, annoyed. _He isn’t bothering to greet us, anyway,_ he thinks to himself. His gut wails like an alarm, neon red “AMBUSH” flickering in his tensed brain.

Reddington finally turns to Ressler. “Savor the moment with me, Donald. You’ll never know how it goes from here.”

Red’s stare is razor-sharp, cutting through every wall Donald’s built around himself, wiping out any boundaries. Blunt and straight. There’s nothing sexual in it, yet Ressler’s pulse is beating ten times faster, mimicking the samba rhythm. For a split-second, Ressler dreams there’s something more to it, something extending beyond their job, beyond this “agent-criminal” tug-of-war. Something his gut has suspected for a while but never had the balls to acknowledge.

Reddington shifts his eyes to the fountain again. The water is cascading at the women, drops bothering the glassy surface, bouncing and splashing.

 _What if he... No. You’re delusional,_ Ressler argues with himself. _He’s a criminal, a murderer. If he needs something, he’ll befriend a fucking Hitler. He needs the FBI to like him, so he pleases them any way he can think of. You’re not special, pal._

 _But,_ Ressler hesitates, _hasn’t he murdered the guy to keep me on the job? If he doesn’t give a rat's ass about me, why doing it?_ He remembers the amount of dirt Red has acquired on him for these years. The Concierge has had plenty of opportunities to use it, to punish him for the screw-ups. But he hasn't. _He hasn’t._ On the contrary, Reddington’s done everything in his power for him to pull through with minimum damage, whether it’s emotional or physical. He’s told the Concierge to stop, to stop pretending he cares because they both know Reddington isn’t that. And yet the more Donald hangs out with him, the more he is noticing the human side of him. He can’t deny it, it’s right in front of his eyes.

_Reddington isn’t the absolute evil._

And the fact that a part of him believes it, terrifies Ressler.

 

* * *

 

There have been days, even months—especially if the case involved kids—when Ressler would shut himself out. And Reddington— _coincidence or not?_ ―would give him a call, inviting for a late-night drink. And Ressler, not even knowing why he has agreed, would wait for the car, and get in on the backseat, smelling familiar citrus and cinnamon. Red would always meet Ressler at a different apartment out of precautions; yet the place itself—a spacious, maze-like library—would remain unchanged. Red would be sitting in the armchair, two tumblers, a bottle of whiskey—Ressler could only guess how many thousands a drop of it costs—and a cigar case on a small polished coffee table. Reddington would smoke, puffing perfect circles of thick gray fumes, swinging the tumbler in his hand, his eyes locked on Ressler, the gaze—curious, not without a hint of worrying. Is it he, Ressler, or he’s counting how much another fuck-up of the FBI has cost him?

Ressler isn’t sure “worrying” fits Reddington. Concern, rather. Not fatherly type of concern, of course. Practical, rational. Business-like. The Concierge depends on the FBI just as much the FBI depends on him. It’s a two-way street, actually—in case the feds decide Red is of no use to them anymore, an “insurance policy”, according to Reddington, will be set in motion.

Once Ressler has asked Reddington about it. The question slips off his mouth involuntarily, and, deeply ashamed, Ressler knows why—he’s scared shitless he’s gonna crumble with Reddington too. His life, his career. _Everything._ And this job is the only thing left, his only way to keep himself together, not throwing himself into something there’s no coming back from. And—Ressler has no doubts in that—the tightrope he’s been walking all this time is reaching its limits, sooner or later.

_“It’ll be such a shame to let a dedicated man like you go down like that. I won’t let it happen.”_

Ressler isn’t sure this is the answer he wants to hear—the lengths Reddington is ready to go protecting him, a mediocre G-man who’s happened to get caught on his radar, the mere fact that he, Donald, is forced to be forever indebted to the man, is sending chills across his spine.

However, their off-job evenings are... _normal._ Strangely, oddly, wildly adequate. Almost like a...

_No. Ridiculous. I’m not... Fuck. It’s just a courtesy call, nothing much._

Red would ask him if he wants to have dinner with him.

_“I’m hoping you’re not against poultry—Bernard did duck breasts with pomegranate-citrus glaze tonight. Of course, I can ask him to do something just for you, if you want.”_

_”No, thanks, it won’t be necessary.”_

_“Well, in that case at least you should choose the drink. I’d recommend Pinot Noir, but, guess, you opt for some Budweiser.”_

And Ressler would agree—out of courtesy rather than hunger. And, funny thing is, in ten minutes he would find himself—this is crazy, but it is so—enjoying the evening. The evening he is with another human being, not just silently hammering down tequila shots. Even if that someone is Raymond Reddington, the man he can’t stomach most of the time.

Much to Ressler’s surprise, at evenings like this, Reddington would keep the usual snarky remarks to himself. On the contrary, the Concierge would treat him as an equal, as a good company, or, maybe, a companion. He’d weave the words, the imagery is sewn like a dozen of threads in an antique rug he’s bargained at some bazaar in Kuwait. He’d engage him in discussions of books, Broadway, cinema, arts, women, and whatever topic their minds, fogged with wine and beer, might come up with.

The niceties over, booze euphoria dissolved in reality, and the question of the day— _How on earth did it happen?_ —sways above Ressler’s head like a guillotine.

Reddington wouldn't tell Donald he’s sorry; wouldn’t tell it’s not his fault. They both know things happen, both know that in life-and-death situations there are choices to be made. And very often, much often than it should, these choices don’t coincide with the morals and ideals we rely on most of the time.

Out of all shrinks and hookers, this man, a criminal, and a pathological liar understands and knows him better than his mother.

_Just be lucky you’re not a woman. He'd have banged you the first day you walked through that door into his cell._

 

* * *

 

Red’s gaze loses its intensity—his eyes hang onto something behind Ressler’s back. Donald, as inconspicuous as possible, inhales deeply in an attempt to calm himself down. It goes unnoticed—the moment he does that, Red passes him.

_The hell was that?_

It’s unnerving. And it’s the first time Donald’s body betrays him. Reddington's presence may be overwhelming, yes—he can attest to that having seen the toughest motherfuckers gagging on tears, begging for mercy, although Reddington doesn’t do anything to them: he’d tell them one of his tales, casually stripping his gun. The end of his tale—a single shot into the head.

_“I’m a violent man, Donald. But I’ve never murdered a man that didn’t deserve it.”_

Or he’d invite one of his numerous—Ressler has lost count to how many employees are on Red’s payroll—“chit-chat experts” who don’t look like anything Ressler expects to see from someone who’s working for the Concierge of Crime.

Donald’s seen a girl, not more than ten years old, who, after spending five minutes with some Russian mobster, untied the motherfucker’s tongue like he is the first grader given a popsicle to suck at. For some reason, Red has asked Ressler to put and keep his headphones on the whole time, although they’ve waited at the opposite side of the seventh floor. When Ressler asked Reddington, what the hell, he’s said, the girl, Katie, has a rare voice disorder—when she talks, her pitch is 140 decibels. It’s instantly harmful to the inner ear, damaging the organ of Corti at once.

Another time it has been an old man, wizened and wrinkled, like a leaf in the fall, always rolling a cart with a bunch of tinted jars stacked. Once, he is setting up the place for another “guest” of Reddington, his calloused, crooked fingers sifting through jars. Pressing the glass of each jar hard to his opened eye, he is humming and muttering. Ressler, following him, reaches out for one of those jars. Reddington, scaring the hell out of Ressler, slaps him on the hand, appearing unexpectedly.

_“Unless torching yourself into excruciating pain is your idea of putting an end to that miserable life of yours, do it. I made Cooper aware that I’m not wasting a dime for your funeral should it come to that.”_

The end of these “conversations” is always the same—Reddington locks his eyes on a person, a vulture clasping the claws on its prey, whilst the unfortunate fella is singing like a canary.

At times Ressler can’t shake off the feeling that one day he might sit on that chair too.

Reddington has always been his job. He, Ressler, has laid his life and career on the line for so many times because at the end of the day it’s worth it. Walking a thin line, undercover assignments, getting hit... It’s worth the effort. Yes, Reddington is never left empty-handed, and yet his intel saves a lot of innocent lives. Ressler can’t deny it. He also can’t deny this: something pulls him to Reddington, something he can’t even explain, can’t find the right word for. Red doesn’t have to be grateful for him constantly throwing himself in front of bullets, but he is. He is, and it’s balls Ressler up.

_Dossiers, papers… Everything you know about him is a lie. There’s no truth even in the words coming off his mouth. Always an agenda, always one step ahead. You, the FBI, or anyone else he lays his eyes on because of whatever reason he has, are just cannon fodder for him._

Ressler turns his head to Reddington. The Concierge brings the blossoming buds to his nose and inhales the aroma, brushing the bud with the fingers. The flowers’ smell is strong and dizzying, sweet fragrances mix in the air, vibrant flower beds sting the eyes.

_He sleeps? His conscience bothers him? He ever sheds a tear? Feels guilty of taking someone’s life?_

Ressler spots a man in a suit walking down the stairs, and Reddington, watching Ressler’s gaze direction, turns his head to the hollow sound of the soles too. The man approaches them quickly: he has one of those faces which is likable but easily forgettable, devoid of any striking features. _Can’t be the owner; one of the cavalries, then,_ Ressler figures. _  
_

“Gentlemen, _Signor_ Costa gives his sincerest apologies. Follow me.”

Reddington and Donald follow him to the antique front door. Once inside, Ressler squints—everything is gleaming, blazing, shining. The hallway is crammed with marble Roman sculptures—classical reproductions. Passing them, Ressler recognizes _Venus de Milo._ Unknown men and women, naked, half-naked, are captured in motion or still. The sunlight fills in space through arched windows, dancing on the Italian mosaics tiles. It’s obviousl the owner doesn’t hide his infatuation with antiquities; or, rather, the cosmic ego, showcasing how rich he is to afford such a lavish residence.

A twenty-second elevator ride to the ground floor, after which Costa’s man, gesturing them at the heavy oak door, disappears, Ressler and Red find themselves in a wine tasting room. The built-in wine racks are stocked up to the ceiling, and a big oak table with six chairs is the focus of the room, the seating area with a sofa and chair cushions to its left.

One of the racks creaks open and a man enters. Donald figures it’s Costa. It’d better be, anyway, since the FBI hasn’t been able to obtain his recent photograph. Costa, or whoever he is, seems to be in no hurry, his stride lazy; he’s taking each step across the room like the time has stalled and there’s no tomorrow. He is the same height as the Concierge, although having a much leaner frame. Ressler would say he’s too thin, or, maybe, the loose dark robe, half-open, worked in the gold thread is hiding his muscles. A thick gold chain with a cross is gleaming around his neck, highlighting a prominent Adam’s apple.

The man casually takes the brown "aviators" off the eyes. His skin is tanned, the dark brown hair greasy, disheveled. He reeks of self-importance; it’s all over his face, giving Ressler a distinctive impression of a sleazy, slick worm-like creature.

“Raymond, _amico mio!_ ” “My friend”, escaping his lips, comes off boot-licking, the oily voice of his transmitting vanity.

He smooches Reddington on the cheek, and Reddington does the same in return.

Donald’s jaw twitches as he grits his teeth together.

Costa gestures to Red, inviting him at the table, ignoring Ressler, as if he’s an empty place. Ressler clenches his fists so hard that his nails dig into the palms.

“Come, come. _Mi spiace_ you had to come all the way here.” Costa glances at Ressler as if he’s an alien, his eyes measuring him up from head to toes—almost like a bidder checking if the stallion is worth the money bet on it. “You said nothing about _accompagnatore,_ ” he sneers. “Don’t know if I can trust him.”

“Donald is one of my closest associates.” Reddington puts his hand on Ressler’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Ressler’s body gives in to the touch for a moment—the tenseness gone, he feels in control of the situation. Red continues: “He holds a particular interest in retrieving my shipment since he’s in charge of the port it’s been loaded at.”

Costa’s lips twist in an apologizing grin. “ _Mio cuore_ agrees with you, Ray, but I can’t let it happen. We talk alone or we don’t talk at all.”

Ressler forces an apologetic smile. _Motherfucker._ They’ve been searched on their way here, at the elevator. It’s beyond bad to leave Red with this lunatic alone, but it doesn’t look like there’s a choice here. He glances at Red, who is weighing his chances of convincing Costa to change his mind.

“Very well then,” Reddington says, clapping in his hands. “Donald, you can go back in the car—”

 _“Dio mio,_ Ray, you think so low of me?” The change in Costa’s attitude is horrifying: a minute ago he’s been implying he could slit their throats if he pleases so, and now he’s a picture of hospitality, radiating kindness like a freaking Mother Teresa.

_Jesus Christ, we’ll be lucky to stay alive when this ends._

Costa shifts his eyes to Ressler. “Walk to the pool, have a drink, _va bene?”_

 

* * *

 

A massive pool, its light blue tiled bottom glistening with golden patterns, twice as large as the FBI’s gym, is secluded by a thick orange trees’ wall. There are three jacuzzies with tubs wide enough to throw a Playboy party and two rows of lounge chairs with umbrellas, fresh towels on. The immaculate perfection is so showy it evokes an urge to rip a few leaves off the trees and drop a bucket of paint into the pool.

Ressler approaches the bar. Accepting the snifter with whiskey from the bartender, he paces at the deck, looking for a spot to kill time. Finding one, he, not taking his shoes off, gets comfortable on the lounge chair and fixes his eyes on the water’s glistening surface. The booze tastes unexpectedly good: stronger than he usually prefers, and with a lot of cinnamon flavors, not matching anything he’s had before. Well, maybe, except at Reddington’s. He wishes he could throw the cash away just like that, although, in reality, he doesn’t allow himself much. Ridiculous amounts of money on whatever knick-knacks for gardening Mom would ask is not a big deal, but when it comes to him, he second-guesses every dollar.

A movement distracts Ressler from contemplation. He stares into the distance, instantly regretting it. _You’re gawking, pal. Stop it._ Reddington hasn’t mentioned Costa’s having a girlfriend or wife, or... His natural curiosity takes the wheel. Ressler, his eyes on the woman, slowly lifts the whiskey to his mouth.

The woman sashays among the row of lounge chairs like she’s on the red carpet. The distance between him and the stranger is reducing; Ressler sees her circling at the edge of the pool: she’s basking in the sunlight, not aware of the “audience”. Or she’s too good at faking she isn’t. Her pace is slow, unhurried, assertive; like she owns the air the man breathes, the soil he walks, the skies he looks at.

Something tells Ressler she’s not a prey type. Usually, he doesn’t profile—he sucks at it. However, years of fucked-up relationships and one-night stands have made him a good judge of women. _Doesn’t seek to impress; doesn’t need to. Not one of those open-legged chicks. Won’t follow any man._ Ressler has seen a lot of ladies who, in a desperate attempt to keep the guy around, use any tricks, sacrificing their dignity. It might work for some time, yeah, but in the end, it doesn’t stick. Ressler sincerely sympathizes with such women. He has never dated them, but he’s seen them in places he’s frequented at a lot. _A pitiful sight._ His father would always tell him that his dignity is what shapes him as a person.

_“You may lose your job, your woman, money, but when you lose your dignity, you lose yourself.”_

Ressler could probably smooth out the rough edges for a woman he’s balls deep with, but he could never let anyone take his dignity from him. No one should, as far as he’s concerned. That’s why he dates women whose views on flings are the same as his own: one night, great sex, no phone calls after, or ball-breaking either. Everyone’s happy. If he ever meets a woman who’s gonna break his long-term engagement with the FBI, he’ll file his resignation next thing in the morning. If he doesn’t... Well, he won’t cry a river about it. As Reddington loves to remind him, life is full of other excitements to explore.

Donald almost spits the whiskey from his mouth realizing the woman has nothing on. _Jesus Christ!_ Not a damn bikini. She’s thirty feet away from him, standing in a thin see-through robe blending with the greenery around. Ressler can’t but ask himself:  _She doesn’t see me? Or doesn’t care?_

The robe drops from her arms, sliding off her back and crumbling at her toes. She steps out of it and pulls up her dark brown hair as if thinking, which way to pin it. Ressler, pretending he’s not a lick interested in the sight, looks away. It’s hard to resist and not to, so he flicks his eyes at her again.

Finally, she pins her hair up. Ressler, taking a sip, watches as she stretches her body before taking a dive. He wonders if she’s a dancer; or, maybe, she’s been one—her upright posture gives it away. His eyes on her, he swirls the rest of the whiskey, ice cubes rattling.

_“Looks are treacherous, Donald. First, she’s like an angel from Heaven, next time, she’s the devil himself.”_

Ressler brushes Reddington’s warnings off his mind, emptying his snifter. Rising from the lounge chair, he walks at the bar for another drink. This time a double. The heat is turning up more—rubbing his neck, he feels it burning. He glances at his watch. _The hell is taking him so long...?_

Donald salutes the bartender—the guy smiles back at him, wiping the down the bar with a towel. Done, he takes a few different bottles, a shaker, and starts mixing a cocktail. Ressler indifferently sips his drink, watching him juggling the bottles.

Someone draws a bar stool next to him. Ressler shifts his eyes at his neighbor: first, he sees two crossed wet legs, the thighs, barely covered with the same robe he’s seen before. It reveals way too much, so he averts his eyes, studying the booze labels on the bar shelves; rows of glasses, snifters, tumblers, cups on the hanging rack; the buzz of a coffee machine clicking and brewing. He looks everywhere, except at the woman. He’s not alarmed or intimidated by her presence—he’s not a cherry-boy, after all. Rather, he knows how it looks like. _It looks bad._ The bartender’s curious gaze is already telling him that. _Fuck._ He curls his fingers around his snifter tighter. Having his own balls for breakfast— _and that’s precisely what’s gonna happen_ —doesn’t inspire him much.

Ressler’s brain registers Italian. The woman takes her martini from the bartender, and the guy evaporates. _Freaking trickster._ Donald, his head is boiling with thoughts— _Costa-Reddington-Costa_ —drops a meaningless comment, glancing at the woman. Something about the heat, the sun, and that he should’ve applied the sun lotion, ’cause his neck hurts like hell. She mimics his casual tone, yet her implication—the way she leans forward, her index finger tracing the rim of her martini glass—is as clear as the melting rocks in it.

It’s getting way too awkward. The more Ressler watches her, the more he realizes: she’s not his type. She’s older than she wants to seem—he could tell it now when she’s inches from him. He isn’t sure how many face-lifts or what-not she has had, but she’s way past thirty. Well, she’s hot, yeah, but he doesn’t get the infatuation with chasing the slipping youth, trying to keep up with the younger competitors. His eyes travel lower, seizing her up... He takes a sip again, glances at her hands. No matter how hard she tries to mask her real age, they belong to a woman between 35-45 years old.

Ressler hopes with all his heart something is gonna free him from this burden—God, he’d even prefer Reddington over Costa’s goons. After another minute it becomes obvious that he isn’t a dead duck she’s thought him be. _Not that good, huh?_ Ressler glances at the watch again. He’s almost ready to pray if only that helps to get Reddington where he needs to. Somehow, this woman knows exactly what he’s thinking—she makes sure he notices her crossing legs again, the way her thighs open and close, revealing her smoothly shaved... 

_Jesus. Why, why the fuck can’t it be another woman?_

She keeps chatting, yet Ressler drops short retorts, not getting into any details. His tongue aches, not used to this much of chatting. For a tiny second, he spots the change in the woman’s features: her eyes darken. He blinks, and the illusion is gone—her head tilted again, she’s flirting with him.

The Italian she speaks right now is getting much, much faster, and different in almost everything he knows. _What the fuck?!_ The words, the sounds— _I know those!_ —don’t match into a coherent utterance in his brain. She keeps on gesturing and gesturing and gesturing... Ressler’s head is spinning like a merry-go-round as he hastily gulps the rest of his whiskey, his brain refusing to decode the continuous burble coming off her mouth.

The whiskey’s gone, and Donald has to meet her eyes. He looks at her: her mouth with thin, wet lips, is crooked in a victorious grin.

“I’m a Sicilian, moron,” she sneers.

_Fucking English?!_

“Happy for ya,” Ressler retorts, looking at her martini with a twinge of envy in his eyes. Usually he doesn’t call women names, but this one is asking for it.

_Bitch._

“Could’ve told me earlier. Makes things kinda easier, you know.”

“And why would I do that?” She pauses, looking for a name.

“Donald.”

“Whatever. If you hadn’t gaped at my tits, you would’ve noticed the difference.”

“Listen, lady, you can bounce your tits, shake your ass as much as you want, but I’m not interested, alright?”Ressler, almost rolling his eyes, thinks, _Why the fuck I’m frying my ass under this fucking sun?_ His mind has the answer ready: _Well, maybe because the fucker you’re frying it for is the fucking Raymond Reddington?  
_

For a second her gaze is sullen, like she’s actually hurt by his words. Next thing he knows, she, smiling, stirs martini with the straw, brings it to her mouth and licks the tip of it.

Ressler keeps his best poker face he’s capable of, regretting the bartender’s gone. 

One of the guards approaches the woman—Ressler doesn’t bother asking her name, preferring to forget her the minute he gets out from here—and whispers something into her ear. It takes not more than a few seconds, and then he’s gone.

Her right hand folded under the cheek, she, stirring her drink again, fixes her eyes at Ressler.

“Business with Lorenzo, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You and Reddington?”

“Yeah,” Ressler barely draws the sounds out, his brain heavy and tired.

“I’ll leave you with your”—the woman gestures someone and Ressler sees the bartender approaching the bar—“whiskey.” Rising from the bar stool, she says: “Boys. I should’ve known.”

“Yeah... Wait, w-what?”

“Reddington is way out of my league, however,”—she gives him a sly grin—“it might be fun.”

 

* * *

 

“So, where are we with Costa?” Ressler asks, his hands on the wheel if the Red’s Mercedes, when the gates close behind them. “He agreed?”

Reddington stares silently at the tinted window. Ressler switches the gears, not rushing Reddington’s answer, watching him in the rear-view mirror. _Man, what’s wrong with him? Prick hasn’t agreed? We’re fucked then...Wait, Reddington’s fucked. Why would I even..._

“Donald, do you remember the promise you’ve given at the FBI Director’s office?”

“Not shooting you by accident?”

Reddington smiles wearily at the snark.

“It’s a little too early for that, considering the circumstances.”

Ressler is silent, driving onto the familiar serpentine, twisting and tangling even more than before.

“Donald, I need to know I can count on you.”

Reddington’s gaze is X-raying him through the leather seat: his bones sizzle, gut white-hot, and in a split second the fever melts into chill. He grows cold on the inside, a tight knot of fear curling in his stomach. 

_“Agent Ressler, I must insist.”_

_“You kidding, right?”  
_

“ _I wish I did. As the FBI’s Assistant Director, it’s twice as hard for me asking you to do it.”  
_

_“Good luck finding another international criminal willing to patch up the holes in your government, Robert.”  
_

_“But sir, this—”_

_“That’s the part of his immunity agreement, Agent Ressler. It won’t work without you.”_

_“There should be another—”_

_“Agent Ressler.”_

_“As one of the main of three witnesses of the immunity agreement between the FBI and Raymond “Red” Reddington, aka the Concierge of Crime, I, Special Agent-in-Charge Donald Ressler, badge number “0837F”, avow the following: maintaining my cover as Mr. Reddington’s trusted associate, at any times when he requests so, I should be prepared for overseas trips. I will not disclose any irrelevant information to the current FBI’s investigation I’ll be hearing or seeing during my extensive stay with Mr. Reddington. I’m obliged to abide and follow Mr. Reddington’s orders to keep my cover intact. At the end of each mission I’m reporting it in person to the current FBI’s Assistant Director, Robert Sutherland. In case of the imminent danger to Mr. Reddington’s well-being, I’m entitled to promptly eliminate any threat, no matter of their looks, race, or social status.”_

“Yes, you can count on me,” Ressler manages, not recognizing his quiet voice.

“Splendid.” Reddington grins. “Just wanted to make sure you appreciate the gravity of the matter here. The shipment we need to intercept before it drifts into the wrong hands, is a set of five Iranian nuclear bombs. I, to my utter dismay, shouldn’t have bought them in the first place. They’ve been more trouble than...” Reddington uncorks the wine _—_ Ressler hears the cork pop.“Anyway, my ex-associate has not only dared to load off a nuclear disaster into the open waters, but also steal the programming codes. No worries,” _—_ Reddington rises his palm, seeing Ressler’s pale face _—_ “one of my employees has already disarmed them.”

“That’s good news, right?”

“Right, but the bad news is, we need to locate _—_ ”

“You can’t do it without the nukes GPS gone dead.”

“Precisely. That’s when Costa and his port comes into play.”

Ressler, watching the sun dissolving behind the clouds, turns right.

“He’s not gonna let you there. He’s seen us, he knows your people. How do we even _—_ ”

“Have you ever heard of _Notte Fatta,_ a lovely place on Via di Monte Testaccio, 96?”

“No.”

“Lorenzo’s only daughter, Bianca, works there. She’s a turbulent young lady who holds a grudge against her father: he’s married another woman shortly after her mother passed away. Two hot-tempered Sicilian women under one roof is like having an atomic bomb in a cellar.”

“You know best,” Ressler taunts.

“Considering the situation, I’d prefer two Sicilian women. By the way, you’ve met Carmela already, right? I heard she’s giving Lorenzo hard time lately, particularly because of a certain stranger she’s tried to tempt into _botta e via_ __at the pool’s bar.”

Ressler hears a subtle snark in Red’s voice.

 _Yeah,_ Ressler thinks,  _awesome._

“We should pay Bianca a visit.” Reddington sounds so casual like he’s going to a picnic.

“We’re what, walking in there like a couple of idiots?” Ressler speeds up on the green light, zigzagging among the rows of cars on the road _._

“Couple or not, mind the agreement.” Reddington’s tone is steely. And Ressler, even if he wants to argue, can’t, so he shuts up, listening to Red’s voice.

“I didn’t tell you it’s a night club, did I? Gentlemen’s only, so dress to impress, Donald. I don’t want anyone to think my associates are a bunch of scruff chimps.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -  
> I have a lot to take off my chest, so if you don't want to read, skip it :) Thank you for dropping by ;)  
> -  
> One of the reasons I'm this slow is the frustration seeing other fics with popular ships within this fandom getting a lot of attention while mine doesn't. It's natural, to want attention, etc, but it drives me crazy to compare my writing with other tbl fics and look for the reason why I suck. 
> 
> I mean, like any other writer, I spend a shitload of time polishing the characters, the story, the language (I don't have the advantage of being a native speaker tho), only to open the tbl fandom page here and see a {shipname} fic popular. Alright, yeah, you can tell me it's natural, something is popular, something is not. But the more I write, the more I get a feeling a certain part of the fandom doesn't give a shit about Ressler as a solid, separate character worth of a good story.
> 
> I experimented: I wrote smut, I wrote general audience fics. Still couldn't get past 20-30 kudos. What am I doing wrong? I'm wrong treating Ressler as a damn separate, solid character he is, and not something else certain shippers do? I'm wrong hooking up Ressler with original characters? Hell, I have a {shipname} reverse drubble, where Liz does the pining and guess what - no one likes it, because it's not Ressler aching for her.
> 
> Honestly, sometimes it's so frustrating I want to abandon writing. 
> 
> I could get why I suck if my writing is bad or what, but guess it's not the case. The truth is very simple: this fic isn't {shipname} that's why it sort of 'sucks'. It hurts, because at times it feels I'm writing into the void. 
> 
> Get a cookie if you get here :D
> 
> I want to say thank you to those who leave comments, kudos, who just read, boosting the views. You help me to deal with frustration, and it means a lot to me. I'll surely finish this story, but not sure if I write another one, despite having a lot of ideas.


	8. Otto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long-ass delay :(
> 
> Buckle up, ladies, gents, and whoever else is there, because I'm gonna show you a REAL CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT, not that piece of back and forth sh!t we get on TBL.
> 
> Teen years, the night of Ressler's father murder, Quantico, first years as an agent, transfer to Washington, the first case on Red (dancing my way through Europe since Red is a sucker for Europe)... I have everything we had been ROBBED FOR FUCKING SEVEN YEARS!
> 
> I'm fixing the shit out of this goddamn train-wreck I still watch because of Diego. #Resslerdeservesbetter
> 
> I also introduce here some smart ladies because WE NEED MORE WELL-WRITTEN LADIES IN FANFICTION AND ON THE DAMN TV.

_April 6th, 1995, thirteen hours prior to Brian Ressler’s murder_

  


The door creaks.

Someone enters the room, footsteps short and quiet. Curtains drawn open, and he feels the warmth of the sun-ray on the back of his head.

“Donny, wake up.”

He mumbles incoherently, pulling the blanket up to his chin. 

“Donald.”

“'Almst...upugh...” 

He’s not really in the mood for school. Not today. Or ever. At least, for this damn whole month, until everything’s settled down. There isn’t a lot of perks of being a cop’s son… Well, maybe, except learning how to strip a gun faster than doing your first step.

As a detective at the First District, his father, Brian Ressler, has stepped on the toes of many people. Important people. Everybody plays by the rules in Washington D.C.; at times, dirty, yes, but rules nevertheless. However, for a man who’s started from scratch, made a name for himself as one of the most respected detectives in his unit, this is not something to easily come to terms with.

  


* * *

  


His father’s job is of no interest to Donald, but its consequences follow him wherever he goes. His life is complicated; just like any of a sixteen-year-old—struggling with himself, school, peers. No one puts up with nerds, but everyone wholeheartedly loathes a cop’s brat whose father is pushing the buttons of the city’s elite. Up to this moment, he hasn’t had any idea the sons, daughters, cousins, sisters, and what-not of those fat cats are at the same school as him—he doesn’t care what’s hot, he just wants to see the graduation day. Turns out, deep pockets cover up broken noses, swirlies, and bruised knuckles. The school staff is blissfully ignorant, keeping up appearances. Asking his folks to change schools is not an option—they’ve sold Mom’s car to pay for it, and it’s the last term. A few more months and he’s free.

He rolls with the punches the life dishes him up by doing boxing. Lately, it’s been a lot of worse than usual. It’s all Dad’s recent investigation; big fish, big money, big risks. It’s not like he is following the news, but he’s not deaf—the chatter goes, no one’s ever come up this close to this guy, Tony-freaking-Stark moneybag. No one—except his father and his partner, Tommy Markin. Markin has a son too, Jimmy, two years younger than him, Donald. Jimmy’s solid, and they hang out together sometimes. These days Jimmy and his dad haven’t been around for dinner at the Ressler’s—the case eats up a lot of time.

It’s kinda a good thing because right now Donald is on his last legs. All hell broke loose and he can’t do lick about it. Telling Mom is a bad idea—she might be doing a good job pretending she’s fine, but he knows better. Dad’s rarely at home, and she’s woken up at night, pacing at her bedroom, sobbing, thinking no one can hear her. She doesn’t need to worry more than she already does.

This whole situation gives him the shits, honestly. _Dad’s job, why, why is it so damn important than them?!!_   James has been just diagnosed with heart failure, he needs his father to be there for him.

He doesn’t need his elder brother making up shitty excuses why his Dad is such a dick.

  


* * *

  


Someone strokes his hair gently.

_Mom._

Donald doesn’t like her doing that, but he won’t say it to upset her. If she lives with the calls from the school about his grades and behavior, he can live with this, too.

He tries not to think about the next half an hour: shower, dressing, breakfast. Dressing is the worst. It means looking at the mirror. _Again._ Why, why his hair is so obvious?  Of course, that’d be too easy, and it’s never easy for him. Because of some stupid gen-chromo-DNA-shit, he’s left with this. A ginger disaster. _How does Mom call it, “strawberry blond”?_ And freckles. God, he hates freckles.

“Donny, it’s time.”

He grunts. _Whatever._ Today’s a mid-term test in World lit— _man, can something even be duller than Russian novels?_   And Civics essay. He’ll flunk that, no doubt—yesterday’s been too damn precious to hit the books.

Recently, his interest in studying has dropped to a critical point—Mom’s has given him the _Important Talk About His Future_ , and promised to take this issue to Dad’s if Donald doesn’t comply. He almost drops that Dad doesn’t give a damn if he’s kicked out from school.

Most of his free time Donald is punching the boxing bag at the school’s gym after classes. And the little time’s left after that, he spends on Lucy. He hasn’t thought it works out since half of the school dreams to stick a flagpole up his ass—but it has, and it’s one of the rare things in his life making him happy. 

Lucy’s the first person to actually talk to him like he’s a human being, not just an empty space.

* * *

_March 20th, 1995_

  


"Alright, one hour begins”—Mr. Jackson looks at his watch—“now. Cheat—and you’ll write this test at the principal’s office.”

Donald sharpens his pencil. Hour, ten minutes—he doesn’t care, it’s a no-brainer for him. Algebra is one of the subjects he likes; there’s consistency, clarity, and it’s always a challenge. Nothing is dubious, just a couple of extra solution options to use for the same equation. 

Mr. Jackson keeps his eyes on the class, pacing among the desks, glancing at the papers.

The classroom door opens, and everyone turns their heads to see what is it.

“Mr. Jackson, I’m so sorry to interrupt...There’s a call for you, it’s urgent.” Mrs. Kane, the school’s secretary, looks worried. 

“I have a test, I can’t...”

 “They say it’s from the hospital...” Mrs. Kane lowers her voice, and leans to Mr. Jackson. His face loses its color, gets as pale as a whiteboard behind him. When he speaks again, he hides his hands in pockets, but Donald catches a glimpse of those—they’re trembling.

_Poor guy._

Mrs. Kane raises her voice. “I expect to find your tests on Mr. Jackson’s table. If you cheated, I’ll know.”

They leave, and for a moment no one breathes a sound.

“What was that?” Emily Hawkins, a typical A—glasses on, two thick long braids, ironed blouse and checkered skirt—wonders. “He’s okay?” 

Everyone starts buzzing with theories until someone yells it’s less than twenty minutes left until the end. 

“Dammit, dammit... What the...” The girl to his left— _what’s her name? Lily?_ _Layla_ _? Lucy,_ _right_ —whispers, biting the tip of her pencil.

Their eyes meet.

He isn’t snooping or anything, he’s just...

“Need help?” 

  


* * *

  


_March 24th, 1995_

  


They see each other a couple of times again at the school’s library, cramming for tests—well, Lucy is—and he uses this as an excuse to spend more time with her. It’s nice to talk with someone not judging you.

Sick from the library cubicles, they call it a day. Donald suggests to hang out in the park nearby—his Mom’s working late, James is at the hospital, Dad... As usual.

“It’s a date then,” Lucy cracks a wide grin at Donald.

They’ve never thread into this territory before. Hell, haven’t even kissed. And he isn’t sure he wants it now; he likes her, yes. He doesn’t want to ruin whatever this is.

“I’m kiddin’, Ress.”

 “Yeah, right.”

She studies him, her eyes seizing him up.

 “You’re blushing.”

 “No, I’m not.”

 “Yes, you are,” Lucy bursts into laughter. 

They find a cozy spot in the shadow of a maple tree. Lucy is reading a 300-pages thick lab manual for her Biology class, her back leaned onto the maple’s bark. She simultaneously jots something down. Her handwriting is messy, and she mutters something to herself, turning pages back and forth.

Donald doesn’t register he’s staring at her for good five minutes. He attempts to move aside, but his arm brushes hers.

 _It’s like someone has cut the air supply in his lungs, and his heart is going to jump from the rib cage._ _She puts the manual aside and leans to him._

_Her lips are so close, so close…_

“Hey, you alright?”

He opens his eyes.

Lucy’s dark brown hair is tickling his cheeks as she hovers over him, worried. It smells of cinnamon, just like the orange-cinnamon cookies Mom bakes every Saturday evening. It’s funny he craves those even now, when he’s no longer a kid anymore.

“You’re hot,” Lucy says, pressing her palm to his forehead.

“So I’ve been told,” Donald grins from teeth to teeth.

“Moron, you have a fever.”

 _Jeez._ He’s lucky his bag in his lap, otherwise it’d be way too awkward.

“It’s nothing, really.”

She gives him _I-don’t-believe-you-a-second_   look, but doesn’t say anything.

  


* * *

  


The sun is setting down, so Donald and Lucy hurry to catch the bus and squeeze into it. Donald is counting the stops—Lucy lives good five blocks from his place. He glances at his cheap watch he’s bought for the money he’s made last summer: it’s six. People keep getting on the bus and very few get off. At some point Lucy has no other choice as to pull herself closer to him.

His neck is burning, like someone’s pressed a lit match to it. And why the hell it’s a big deal now? That thing earlier, it’s just a dream, nothing else.

When the bus brakes sharply, Donald wraps his arm over Lucy’s waist for her not to fall. He doesn’t know how long they’re standing like that. And she doesn’t tell him to let her go. _So, maybe, she’s okay with that?_

“Don, it’s ours.”

He follows her—he’s been here before. It’s a less fancier neighborhood than his; to be honest, sometimes he’s scared for Lucy—she attends a couple of extra-tutoring on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, gets home really late. His father’s used to bring lots of work home back in the day he’s been at the Homicide—there is a lot of ugly stuff happening to women, especially, pretty ones. 

Donald doesn’t know why of a sudden those thoughts are running in his head. Why, indeed?

She’s his friend, and it’s natural he’s worried about her.

They get to her apartment faster than usual—and for the first time Donald wishes the bus would’ve stuck on a traffic jam.

“Alright, see you on Sunday.” Lucy kisses him on the cheek. She’s done this before, and until today it hasn’t been a big deal.

He remembers her looking at him today, worried. The traces of vanilla in the air, when she moves closer to him, listening to him explaining rational expressions and what-not; how she puts a chocolate _Pocky_   between her lips, taking a bite.

_“My Mom was patrol, I totally get what you mean, Ress, I really do."_

Before she turns her back from him, Donald takes her hand in his. To his surprise, she doesn’t let go. Instead, she squeezes it.

She looks at him, looks, and looks...

  


* * *

  


_April 6th, 1995, eleven hours prior to Brian Ressler’s murder_

  


Tonight Donald’s gonna ask Lucy out, a real date at last. There’s this new movie out, a silly rom-com she might like, so it should work. They could take the last row seats…

“Hey, Sam, you see my keys?”

His father’s rough, looming voice wakes him up. Donald jumps off the bed, throwing the blanket away.

“Dad’s here?”

“Good morning to you too,” Mom grins. He smooches her on the cheek and bolts out of the room. He finds Dad in the hall, upholstering his gun. 

“You don’t stay for breakfast?” Donald can’t hide the accusation in his tone; he doesn't mean it. Does he?..

Dad gives him the look. _I’m-the-authority-here_ look, _I-know-life-better-than-you_ look. It makes him sick. He’s so damn sick of all this, of Mom’s crying, James endless questions, shit at school, Mom’s bloodshot eyes in the mornings. _Does he even care? Does he even notice what’s he doing to her?_

On top of that, bills for James’ treatment keep growing like a snowball, draining their budget like a freaking leak in a pipe.

_There must be another way, something else, anything. It can’t go on like this forever._

“Found ’em!” His father puts the keys into the pocket. Approaching Donald, he lets a deep sigh.

Donald has grown a few feet taller last summer, and now he’s matching his height. He has never given a thought how shitty his old man looks these days: gray has touched his dark brown hair, his gaze—worn-out, heavy, hands getting extra spots and wrinkles.

_No. No, that doesn’t cut it._

“Don, I know it’s tough, but—”

The anger is boiling up somewhere in Donald’s stomach, rolling up to his throat as he throws his father’s hand off his shoulder.

“BULLSHIT!!! Admit it, damn it! Your job, that’s what you care about! THE ONLY FUCKING THING!!!”

“Don’t you dare talking to your father like that, Donald Ressler!”  

He turns to his mother who’s just walked in. Her arms are folded on her chest, lips pursed. It takes him a whole lot of willpower not to snap at her.

The silence is deafening. It’s drilling into Donald’s brain, his own words echo’s in the air.

Nothing.

He could swear his father’s lips have twitched for a second.

“Say something.” Donald throws the words desperately, a drowning man hanging onto the last lifesaver left. “Say it isn’t true.”

His father turns his back on him, puts on his leather jacket, and closes the door behind him.

Donald gapes at the door. His body is concrete-like numb, senses on standby. It takes him less than twenty minutes to pack up his things for school. He gives a high-five to James who’s having breakfast and looks far from a healthy kid should look like. At least—a tiny bit better than yesterday, though. When Donald reaches out for his lunch bag on the counter—it’s silly, but Mom keeps giving him those even now, and he can’t refuse her—she turns to him.

“Donny,”—she covers his hand on the lunch bag with hers—“he’s trying. He really is.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Or, rather, there are lots of things stinging on his tongue. But he sees the tears in her swollen eyes, wrinkled, craggy skin, as if she’s rapidly aged for fifteen years. Her shoulders are hunched, hands weary from work.

“I know, Ma, I know,” Donald says, hugging her.

  


* * *

  


The day at school goes unexpectedly calm. There have been a few “Hey, cocksucker!”, but other than that, he isn’t bothered. Lucy has given him a handwritten note to pick her up after classes. She also tells him, they’d better be done by eight—her Dad’s gonna, she quotes, “Nail up a front door” if she’s late. This news lift Donald’s sunken mood up—just as he’s thought, he flunks the test. And the essay... Mom’s gonna get a call about that, too.

Donald is going through the books from his locker—if he doesn’t return them to the library today, Ms. Glenn is gonna skin him alive—when he hears shouts.

“Look at that! Who knew you can read, dickhead.”

He’s too tired from the workout to realize it’s for him.

“Hey, Ressler, lost your last brain cell or what?”

 _Shit. Hirsh and his dogs._ _Why the fuck they aren’t at home yet?_

“Get off, Hirsh,” Donald attempts taking a step, but a tall blond guy blocks his way.

Lennox.

“I don’t have—”

Another—Goggins—as fat as a beer cask, pushes him into the chest. They circle him, hovering like three hyenas at their prey. 

“A birdy chirped you’re banging the hottest chick in the school.” 

_Dammit._

“Not your damn business, Hirsh.”

“Boo, rude.” Hirsh steps forward, so close to him that Donald smells the gym’s shower shampoo on him. “See, we think it’s not fair. Right, boys?” Lennox and Goggins snigger approvingly. “So, me and my boys think, what if we take a bite too?”

Donald grows cold on the inside, his stomach a pit of ice.

“The fuck you’re talking ‘bout, Hirsh?”

Lennox reaches out to grab him. Donald, acting on pure instinct, throws his hand off himself and punches him in the face. Lennox wails in a high pitch, almost like an opera singer, covering his bleeding nose.

Donald barely gets to feel the triumph as he hears a shriek in the hall followed by whimpers.

_Lucy._

He spins around like a top, his sneakers sliding on the polished floor. He lacks a second—they catch him in a death grip and secure his legs.

“Get your hands off me, you fucking—”

“Don’t you wanna see her? Man, she’s a hot one.”

They drag him into the hall, roaring with laughter, cracking dirty jokes about Lucy. Donald wriggles, his knuckles ache, but the grip is too tight. Lucy is shoved into the corner by two basketball players, unknown to Donald. Her back to the wall, bag, half-opened, books on the floor, is at her feet, her face is tear-stained.

It’s getting harder to breathe, his chest is scissored. He looks at Lucy and realizes her lipstick is smeared, T-shirt is crinkly, skirt is wrinkled…

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!!” Donald yells, screaming his heart out, his voice bouncing off the walls, shattering over the rows of lockers.

Hirsh leans over to Donald. “She’s _so good_ at head, you’ve no..”

Donald doesn’t listen—when Lennox and Goggins weaken their grip, giggling at Hirsh’s words, he goes for it.

Punches. Jabs. Hooks.

Kicks. Punches. Hooks. Kicks.

Chins. Jaws. Chest. Abdomen. Ribs.

He delivers the blows as his life depends on it—

it does.

His fists are on fire, crashing the crooked smiles off their blurred faces—he doesn’t recognize them anymore. They dissolve in a thick fog filled with whimpers and wails, blending into someone familiar.

_Dad._

He halts for less than few seconds. His fingertips singe as he stares, fists clench on their own accord, blows getting heavier and heavier, a giant hammer swinging in his hands; his knuckles ache, but he keeps on. His skin is hot, the fury is torching its way through each pore, crackling like he’s swallowed a fireball.

_“I know it’s tough.”_

_“He’s trying.”_

_“Dad reads me a book tonight?”_

“Don, no! STOP! You’re killing them!”

Lucy’s voice is weak, like she’s million years away from him, yet it’s just ten feet. He blinks, staring at her absentmindedly. Two basketball players, twice as bigger than him, on all fours, mouths bloodstained, faces a bloody mess. Lennox’s left eye is circled by a giant bruise, and he, panting, wraps his arms around himself, rocking back and forth.

Hirsh is crying in the corner, and when he sees Ressler looking at his direction, he bleats:

“N-n-no, p-please, n-no...”

Donald takes a step back, tripping over Goggins spread on the floor, unconscious.

“Move!!!” Lucy pulls him by the hand.

He doesn’t know where she’s taking him—and, frankly, he doesn’t give a single fuck right now. He follows her without a question, his heart’s pounding, knuckles itching like a bitch. He rubs them off his T-shirt, but it gets only worse.

_You almost killed them. You could have killed them._

_On the other hand, Dad’s could’ve had see me more often._ He giggles at the thought—he thinks he does, in reality, it comes off as a stifled snort like he’s swallowed a brick.

“Look at me.” Lucy cups her hands around his face. Donald can’t figure out the place she’s taken him. Looks like a park, sort of. “They could’ve killed you,” she utters, adding firmness to the voice, however it comes out so quiet he barely hears her.

Fear is in her eyes. _If she hasn’t told me to stop..._

“You’re welcome,” Donald spits through gritted teeth. He’s not some kind of a... 

“Dammit, Ressler, I’m worried for you, don’t you get that?! I still am.” She lets go of him, now fidgeting with her skirt. “If something happened to you.” She doesn’t finish, breaking into tears. “I-I-I w-w-was s-so stupid… I-I shouldn’t… have… t-told… Chloe.”

Donald doesn’t know what to say. He’s always thrown off balance when someone’s crying in front of him What should he say? What is appropriate to say? 

He takes Lucy’s hand into his, his thumb gently brushing her skin. She keeps sobbing and collapses into his arms, shuddering. After a while, Donald realizes it’s already evening—his watch is broken, he has no idea what time is it. The sun has set down; cars are honking somewhere in the distance.

Lucy doesn’t cry anymore—she is cuddled up in his lap, and he’s stroking her hair. It seems a thousand years passed until she raises her eyes on him, swollen and teary. They simmer in the lamppost weak light, silver and smoke, dark gray volcano ashes. As she wipes the rest of her ruined make-up with the handkerchief he’s given her, Donald frowns.

“I hate to ask, but,” he swallows. “Did they...You know.”

“What?.. Oh. No, nothing.” She squeezes his hand, rubbing his bruised knuckles gently. “Hirsh was running his mouth to see how you react... And you did.” She sighs.

Out of a sudden she lets a giggle and almost loses her balance. 

_Jeez, women._

“What’s so funny?”

“They’re such idiots!” Lucy, grinning, sits next to him. “Look, they’ve grabbed me right at the lab, and since someone’s been trying to break into the lab recently, Mr. Sloan installed a couple of hidden cams in his class.”

“Wait, how do you—”

“I’m his favorite student, silly,” Lucy flicks him lightly into his nose. “He’s nice. And he doesn’t punch people…” She gives him a meaningful grin. “Too soon?.. God, I’d pay to see their folks faces tomorrow at the board meeting… By the way”—she tilts her head—“your old man’s going or?..” Donald shakes his head. “Well, considering this situation, it’s for good, I guess. But I’m sure he’d be proud of what you did today, even if it wasn’t much...”—she pauses to pick a word—“ _lawful_ … What? What is it?”

Donald doesn’t answer, averting his eyes.

“Don’t tell me… Again?”

“Yeah.”

“Give him a break, Don. He’s—”

Her words flip a switch in him.

“Don’t tell me he’s trying! Don’t tell me it’s hard for him too! James is fucking dying, Mom’s on pills, and the only fucking thing he cares is that moneybag!”

Lucy doesn’t utter a word; she doesn’t move, frozen like a just carved marble statue.

The street’s quiet, but it can’t match the silence between them.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t… Fuck.” He collapses onto the bench, covering his face. He hears Lucy drawing herself closer to him: she lays her head on his shoulder, lacing her fingers with his.

“I know.” She is quiet for a moment. “He’s doing it for you. Like my Mom did, rest her soul. I know it doesn’t seem this way. He wants a better life for you, for all of you. Promise, you’ll talk to him next time, okay?”

All his senses want to fight, to argue, to tell her she doesn’t know his old man… She gazes at him, serious, yet lovingly—and warmth in her look weakens his resistance, melting down his decisiveness.

“Good.” The corners of her lips raised in a soft smile, as her fingers play with his hair.

He doesn’t know what devil’s made him kiss her.

His pulse’s speeding up like a racing car, and a part of him is scared she’s gonna break the kiss—that’s the last thing they need for today, and…

“Ressler,” Lucy, her nails scratching the back of his head, breaks the kiss. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. Or I’ll swear, I’ll punch you.”

“You? Punch me?” Donald lets a soft laugh, pulling her closer.

“Shut up.” _  
_

  


* * *

  


“…Don’t fuss, it’s just me walking you home, making sure you don’t get into trouble.”

“ _I_   wanted to make sure you don’t,” grunts Donald as they stride to his apartment. It’s a long walk, but to Donald’s disappointment, tonight it flies like a speed car.

Lucy tugs at his hair and kisses him.

The night wraps the city. Blackness is drinking in each and every corner, spreading over buildings, its embrace—pitch-black, swallowing up the brick and block, concrete and glass. Unlit windows—hollow sockets. Mosquitoes are swarming the lampposts, drawn by flickering lights, the air is heavy with gas and burning rubber. Donald doesn’t care—he’s occupied with Lucy, whispering a bunch of far too naughty things a girl of her age knows into his ear. If she keeps on, they’d have to follow-up on certain things they’ve done on the bench. If a passer-by hasn’t spooked them… Yeah, it’s probably for the best.

“I told you already...”

His father’s sharp voice distracts Donald—he doesn’t remember Dad to ever speak like that. His old man might be tough on him, maybe—on his colleagues, but he’s never...

“Don?” Lucy wonders, but he gestures her, pressing his index finger to his lips. He squeezes Lucy’s hand, taking her behind the nearest hedge.

“...been there already, Brian.”

“It’s Mr. Ressler for you.”

“It’s good money, Mr. Ressler.” Donald doesn’t see the owner of the voice—his back only—but he doesn’t like him already. His voice runs smooth like an oiled wheel. “James needs them. And Donald, too. Colleges are such a hit to the wallet, aren’t they?”

_Is that…_

“Let me drive this home—we need nothing from you. Leave us alone.”

_Why isn’t he taking it? Dammit, why?_

“You’re making a big mistake, Mr. Ressler.”

Donald, holding his breath when the stranger’s back moves into his direction. He squeezes Lucy’s hand so hard she’s sputtering into his ear that it hurts. The stranger follows across the hedge, emerges at the street, and, to Donald’s relief, turns in the opposite direction from them. Don looks at his Dad, standing on the porch flickering a cig. _Since when he’s even?..._

_**Hs-sssssst!** _

He instinctively covers Lucy with his body, collapsing onto the sidewalk.

“You hurt?” Donald asks, tracing a finger across her cheek. She shakes her head, trembling. They don’t need words to communicate—being raised by cops, both of them know too well what has just happened.

He jumps to his feet and rushes for the porch. Twenty steps in less than a minute.

_God, please, let it be just a…_

Donald stalls, staring at the cigarette’s tip pressed between Dad’s fingers. It’s barely smoked, the filter is glowing faintly. An opened lighter lies a few inches away from his palm.  He drops to his knees, grabs his Dad’s by his shirt—probably, he hasn’t gotten to change it, caught off-guard. A dark dot, no more than five cents, between his father’s brows is gaping at him. The air reeks of copper and burned gunpowder.

“Dad! Dad!”

“Don,”—Lucy touches his shoulder—“Don, he’s—”

“No!!!”

“We need to call the police.”

“No, he’s not dead!”

“Donald! Listen to me!” She shakes him up a little. “We need—”

The front door swings open.

“Donny? I thought I heard—”

He raises his eyes on Mom. She stares at the body—at his Dad’s, at her husband’s. She’s rooted to the spot, breathing sharply. Tears are filling her eyes, although she doesn’t cry. She looks remarkably composed for a woman who has just found her husband dead on the porch of their house.

Whenever his father’s been off to work, Mom has taken his place, and sometimes she’d put the squeeze on him and James if they misbehave. Donald doesn’t blame her—one can’t let their guard down with two boys in the house. Somehow he’s never paid much attention to that until now, the strength it takes her to keep herself like that when she’s around them.

Their eyes met.

_This is the day they both have prayed would never come._

“You touched anything?” His Mom inquires, and for the first time, Donald realizes that Dad has brought work at home more often than he’s thought.

“I..” He can’t pick the words; they gag him, stuck within, blocking the air passage. He takes a breath, but it feels like someone’s shoved bricks into his throat. “Shirt,” he manages.

His Mom nods. “Alright.” She shifts her gaze to Lucy. “You must be Lucy, right?” A faint smile touches the corners of her mouth. Donald doesn’t wonder, how on earth she knows it—she’s his Mom, after all. “Please, take Donny inside.” 

Lucy prompts Donald to go, but he can’t move, his legs disobeying him. She pulls him by his hand, hissing, “Let's go, please, Don, let's go”, but his eyes are wandering over the pool of blood under his Dad’s head.

When Donald reaches the front door—four steps have never felt so heavy—his Mom hugs him, whispering.

“You and Lucy weren’t here, you understand? I found him, not you.”

“But Mom—”

“Go.”

  


* * *

The next few days pass in a blur.

The stars-and-stripes flag, folded neatly on his mother’s lap. Lucy, holding his hand. James, sobbing, tugging at his sleeve. Stares. Indifferent, curious, sympathizing. Women’s dresses—fancier than Mom’s; men looking dapper in their suits. Precinct officers, saluting to the taps. Dad’s shrouded photograph and badge. 

His knuckles ache when Dad’s colleagues approach him and Mom.

 _Why Dad?_  

_Why not them?_

It’s an awful thought, he shouldn’t think like that, he knows.

But he can’t.

Tommy Markin pays his respects too. He’s grieving, yes, yet he looks like he’s made peace with it already. 

Donald doesn’t have the time to think it over as people keep coming. Their lips move—he doesn’t register the words. He nods and nods, stifling the tears, pushing them down the throat, his tongue sore of never-ending “Thank you”. 

He can’t allow being weak.

_Not now._

_Or ever._

  


* * *

  


Donald doesn’t go to school, and the papers heap up all over his room. His Mom doesn’t pressure him about it, although he sees the concern in her eyes. He doesn’t care. He refuses to eat, too, and Mom has to go around it, and asking Lucy to help her out. You can’t overpower two worried women, so he surrenders under their pressure.

Lucy, as usual for these two weeks after the funeral, sits on the couch in his bedroom. His head on her lap, she plays with his hair.

Whenever she drops by, they don’t talk a lot. And he’s grateful she doesn’t ask him anything—he’s been already interviewed by cops a thousand times. He couldn’t lie, couldn’t let Mom carry the burden. He lets Lucy out of the picture, and, to his Mom’s disapproval, spills all the details.

There’s not a shred of life left in him. Lucy’s presence relieves the numb hollow inside, but it doesn’t take the pain away. 

Today is different. Something’s not right, he could tell it. They know each other too well for him not to see it. She’s here, but she isn’t present. When he presses her about it, she cracks.

“Dad’s transferred to Ohio, and...”

He doesn’t process it, not yet. The words come off his mouth before he realizes it.

“Don’t bother, I get it.”

“I t-told him I wanna stay, I did.” His T-shirt is wet from her tears. “If I had a choice, I would, Don, I would. But I can’t.”

As he nods, his jaw is tensed, like he is a goddamn Tin Woodman.

Lucy laces her fingers with his.

He doesn’t.

  


* * *

  


An orange lighter flickering in the grass.

Motionless hand on the ground.

_“BULLSHIT!!! Admit it, damn it! Your job, that’s what you care about! THE ONLY FUCKING THING!!!”_

_**BANG!** _

He wriggles in his bed, his T-shirt wet from sweat, his body trembling.

_What if he took the money?_

* * *

  


When Donald learns the case Dad’s been working on, the case that gets him murdered, is closed due to the lack of the evidence, he shuts out from his Mom. Laying on the bed, his eyes fixed on a ceiling, he counts the cracks and spots, contemplating.

 _Markin._ New suit, new watch. The way he looks at him, like he’s a lost cause. _Hasn’t stayed for the end, left after the prayer._

The sudden understanding feels like a kick in the groin.

  


* * *

  


“We’ve done everything we could, Donald. My hands are tied.”

The First District Chief stares at him like he’s a rabid mutt. He could stare all he wants, but he’ll need to explain why the hell they’ve launched a new investigation into Dad. _Fucking unbelievable!_

“Those accusations aren’t true, and you know it! He hasn’t taken a spare dollar in his life! It’s not three days after the wake! Can’t it wait?!”

“I’ve already told you too much, just out of respect for your father. Now, if you excuse me, I have other things to take care of.”

“Fuck you,” Donald mutters under his breath, slamming the office door shut.

  


* * *

  


Donald is shivering in a denim jacket over a T-shirt, cool wind whipping his cheeks, sneakers stick in the lumpy dirt as he stomps among the graves. He drags his feet, hands in pockets, collar up. He doesn’t turn his head to look at the sky—the sun is bathing in spilled liquid gold, crimson ribbons snaking over dark purple, embracing puffy curves of careless clouds floating by.

The wind slaps him harder, the cascade of droplets batters his cheeks. The drops are crashing over the tombstone, the water trickling into engraved “Brian Ressler”.

_“Say it isn’t true!”_

Donald wipes his face on his sleeve, shuddering, swallowing hot, salty tears itching on his lips.

“I-I’m s-sorry… I’m s-so, so, sorry, Dad… I didn’t…”

The wind is hissing in his ears, and Donald doesn’t register the footsteps behind.

“You mind?” The man’s voice emanates warmth, like crackling woods in the fire. It’s very different from Dad’s—lower pitch, slightly brash.

Donald freaks out, his feet stumbling in the muddy soil. He turns his head to the man, yet it’s so he can only see the silhouette looming between the graves. _Weird._ The stranger just stands there, not coming any closer. He looks out of place. Donald doesn’t remember anyone at Dad’s job with such a voice, or that they would wear a uniform—his eyes catch a glimpse—something silver—or a service cap.

The stranger, it seems, doesn’t mind this assessment; Donald could swear the guy is doing the same in return. Something tells him that in different circumstances this man wouldn’t have tolerated it. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but this man, whoever the hell he is…. You’d better watch your six with him.

The man approaches him, and Don instinctively takes a step back, his sneakers slipping on the wet grass. The stranger gives him a fleeting smile that momentarily evaporates off his mouth, his face frozen in a nonchalant expression, features hidden by a groomed beard. The stranger takes off his service cap—Don recognizes the Navy insignia, a silver spread eagle, perched atop a shield supported by two golden fouled anchors. Certainly, he isn’t in the service anymore because the uniform doesn’t fit him that much—he’s gained a few extra pounds over the years.

“You knew Dad?” Donald blurts, not even bothering to hide his disbelief. _His old man and this Navy guy know each other? Ridiculous._

The stranger gazes at him like he’s a curiosity at the _Kunstkamera_ , a peculiar little detail of the puzzle he isn’t sure he wants to solve, although he is very much tempted to. 

It is awkward. Donald can’t help but avert his eyes, his ears burning.

“Not really, no,” the stranger drops casually. 

_What the...? What he’s even doing here? Is he some kind of pervert or what? Gets off on grieving?_

“Why the hell you’re here then?” Donald’s patience hangs on a thread.

“I have no idea, to be honest.”

_Freak._

“What you—”

“Our world is such an incomprehensible place.” He pauses. “The way things evolve, losing their basic nature, and transform into something you can’t fathom at times. I’m fascinated by it.” He looks at Donald, as if prompting, it’s his turn to reply.

Thousands of things are rolling on Donald’s tongue. He doesn’t mouth them, captivated by the stranger. The way this man speaks, the way he tilts his head at him, it cuts the ground from under his feet. There’s something Donald can’t pick up, though— _he is genuinely interested in my opinion? Or it’s some sick trick?_

“Who the hell are you?!”

The distance between them melts rapidly as the stranger approaches Donald. He puts his hand on Donald’s shoulder, casting a glance at the grave.

“You’ll hear many things in a couple of weeks. The question is, will you believe them?”

“I don’t under—”

“Always trust your gut. It has never failed your father, it won’t fail you.” 

He puts his service cap on and before Donald manages to utter a word, leaves.

  


* * *

_April 1996, Adam’s anniversary of death_

“Raymond, you _must_ eat. Dr. Robinson—”

“I’m well aware of the doctor’s orders since I’m the one who has requested his services in the first place.”

Dembe is quiet. He isn’t much of a talker, a silent shadow most of the time. However, recently—not so much. Red appreciates the concern—running a criminal enterprise comes with certain obligations, one of which is clarity of judgment. Licking wounds after the defeat is a natural turn of events, although you can’t take it too long. One, the tiniest chink in your armor draws those knowing how to exploit it at their benefit. 

Red doesn’t need to look at the calendar—he knows what day is today. A year since he’s seen the last of Adam in Shanghai. The day he…

The weather is ridiculing him: it’s exactly the same as on that day. The rain is thrumming on the tall windows of the studio—its owners are on vacation until the summer. The Pearl Tower is hardly distinguishable in the fog, gleaming with purple and pink. Today’s visit has nothing to do with shipments and merchandise, although the reminiscences of Adam are following him everywhere. 

How much he’ll need to make peace with what’s happened? A year? Two? Ten?

_No time will ever be enough._

Adam follows him in his dreams. No gunshot wounds, no blood. Just like he remembers him, azure eyes and Apollo physique.

He is silent. Always silent, damn it. It enrages Red, so he speaks, speaks for both of them. Speaks and speaks, his voice getting to the highest pitch possible, his voice chords trembling as he screams his head off.

The dreams evolve into nightmares where he’s watching himself murdering Adam over and over again. Each time a different perspective, as if his mind is trying to analyze the decision he’s made.

_Was there another way? Was there something else? Was there anything...?_

He doesn’t know.

Three months pass.

Half a year.

Year.

He has brought this on himself. He, and no one else. He’s been negligent. Careless. Infatuated. Adam has strung him all along, done it in his face, and he has chosen not to believe it.

The youth is devious, perceiving herself as invincible. Whenever she slips, she loses the balance. A wise man doesn’t strengthen himself with victories, but forges with the mistakes made.

Red reluctantly picks the chopsticks from a tiny dragon-shaped stand. He takes a bowl with the fried rice and inhales the tempting aroma. He won’t even try to resist such heaven served to him. Ken Chiang, an old acquaintance of his, the chef of the _Dragon Phoenix_ , has perfected his craft over the years: dim sums’ are as gentle as a first kiss, the softer crunchy texture of the steamed shrimps juxtaposing with the juicy pork; _Peri Peri Chicken Satay_   is fiery and flawless, and the fried noodles are to sell your soul for.

Finished, he puts the chopsticks back on the stand, and just at this moment, someone knocks on the door.

“Come on in.”

A young Chinese woman, accompanied by Dembe with a box in his hands, walks in. She chirps something in Chinese—too fast for him to grasp, so he just nods at her words. She gestures Dembe at the other side of the room, a sofa and two armchairs looking out at the Pearl Tower.

As Dembe helps her to set up—installs a low coffee table, takes two cushions from the sofa and puts them on the carpeted floor from each side of it. He attempts to give her a hand with the teaware, but she doesn’t allow him. 

Dembe disappears behind the door, leaving them. The woman, setting the table for the tea ceremony, glances at Red. It never ceases to amaze him how fragile Chinese women look. This one is not an exception—if he hasn’t seen her face, he’d thought it’s a child. Her eyes are pitch-black, matching her hair tied up in a neat bun. Her _zǎnze_  is as elegant as her—soft turquoise pastel covered with camellias.

Curtains are closed, the room sunk into the intimate dimness. He gets comfortable on the pillow, watching the woman’s tender hands lighting a scented jasmine stick. Before he knows it, her hands are flitting over the tea tray with cups. First, she warms the teapot with hot water, then—cups. The water trickles off the surface with a soft hissing when it meets the wood and clay. She deliberately waters the tray, not forgetting to feed the _cháchǒng_ with water, a chubby toad, its eyes squinted, wearing a necklace made of golden coins, grinning at them. Measuring the _oolong_   tea into the caddy, puts it onto a tea lotus, inviting Red to smell. The aroma is divine, and he can only guess how delicious it’s going to get after she steeps the tea. Spooning the leaves into the teapot, she adds water, rinsing them. Next, she grips each cup with bamboo tweezers feeding the rinse to the toad. Warming the cups again, she steeps the tea for the second time. The jasmine and the rich aroma of the tea entwine in the air, complementing each other. As the scented stick burns, it lets a thin ribbon of smoke, teasing his nostrils.

The sound of the tea poured into the cups is somnolent. A transient instant captured in a graceful dance of the tea leaves in the glassy pitcher, whirling on the surface only to fall down at the bottom. As the leaves give their colors to the water, it saturates with golden yellow.

The woman pours the tea into the pitcher first, and from the pitcher—into his _gàiwǎn._ She gives him his cup, and he, accepting it, utters a quiet _“Xie xie”._ He can’t read anything behind her porcelain smile. Before he realizes, his fingers act on their accord, brushing her cheek. She doesn’t even flinch at his touch, lowering her eyes with obedience. Like thousands of her kind, long time before she was born, enslaved and bargained.

He pulls his hand away.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disrespect you.” 

He hopes she understands his Mandarin, it’s not as good as he wants it to be.

“You are lonely.” She shuffles the cups on the tray.

“Is it so obvious?” He manages a weak smile.

She doesn’t answer; instead, she spoons a new portion of tea leaves. Picking a leaf with tweezers, she puts it into his emptied cup and adds just-boiled water to his cup, covering the lid. Doing the same with her cup, she waits for a moment, before she spills the water.

Red gives her a warm smile. It’s the first time he genuinely does it for this year.

“I’m afraid, divination isn’t something I groove on.”

She doesn’t respond, adding the water and laying the leaves out on the saucer in an instant. 

His leaf is shrunk, cracks all over it. Hers—left intact.

He doesn’t need her to tell him what does it mean.

“Thank you for the tea.”

He shuts the door behind him on his way out.

  


* * *

  


_May 2008, Kansas City FBI main office  
_

  


The first couple of weeks in Quantico Donald has been working his ass off. It’s a long way from a newbie to a rookie agent, but his an all-out effort makes it possible. The last year at school has been a mess, however, he buckles down, applies for a couple of grants and makes it into a college. He’s been on a bender for a few times in his first year at college, however, in his sophomore year he finally decides what he wants to do. There’s been this FBI recruitment ad on the web that has caught his attention. The police work, slaving at some precinct with no prospects isn’t much inspiring, and considering what happened to Dad, it’d drive Mom nuts with worry. But this… He could nail down all those wealthy, corrupted scumbags who think that everyone is in their pockets. 

He’ll prove them wrong. He’ll do it for Dad. For all the good, honest people like him.

Sometimes Donald lets some steam, twice a month, going out with friends. The buzz around his Dad’s case has quietened, and the college kids aren’t as nosy as those at his school. At times it seems they care only about booze and benders. After his drink gets laced with a drug, he doesn’t set his foot out anymore, preferring the gym to partying. It’s been paid off: a few senior girls have been hitting on him, and he could swear some guys have given him _that_   look, too.

When he gets into the Academy, Donald sweats his guts out to show what he’s made of. He aces all the exams; he’s especially praised for his outstanding marksmanship skills and hand-to-hand combat. Profiling and teamwork aren’t his strong suit, but eventually, he excels them both.

His first year as a trainee in Kansas City is a real grind: he’s thought it’s gonna be something more exciting than obtaining an endless list of warrants. He’d study phone records, bank records, correspondence, at times—craft a person’s entire life timeline to understand how they happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. His dedication earns him a promotion—he’s finally in the field. On one hand, he and the division he’s in, the white-collar crime one, has put away many moneybags and fraudsters, just like Rob Dixon, the man his father has been investigating. On the other hand, it isn’t enough for him, he wants to do something that matters on a much bigger scale.

His devotion doesn’t go unnoticed: Donald’s transferred into a domestic terrorism division, joining a team of six seasoned agents, one of them, Jack Doherty, becoming his mentor. They work cases together,—Donald’s a quick study—and he is learning the tricks of the trade: how to interconnect the seemingly random stuff at first sight, looking for coincidences; handle the upcoming tips from the FBI hotline or the data gotten from the analysts, deal with defeat, and how important is to do a monthly psych eval if he doesn’t want his ass kicked out from the FBI. 

It’s like they are fighting a giant, multi-headed dragon from Russian tales—one of the agents whose grandma is Russian once joked about it; a great comparison, actually. You cut its head, but it grows back in an instant, bolder and deadlier than before. 

This job is demanding, ungrateful at times, but Donald doesn’t imagine himself doing something else than that. It’s important, all of it they do every day, making a difference in this world. As far as he’s concerned, evil should be punished, locked in and never freed. That’s what keeps him up in the mornings, the thought they’re doing it for all the people like his father, all those who sacrifice their lives to do good. 

FBI’s gym makes way for the old gym he’s done boxing in his teen years. He comes in at the office early, greets the security who are already used to him coming at this hour and swipes in his card.

He usually stars his workout routine with skipping, and this morning is no different. Just as he takes a 40-second rest between the skipping rounds, someone walks in.

“Oh. Didn’t think someone will be here.” The woman cracks an apologizing smile at him. Her dyed blonde hair is cut boyishly short; she wears no make-up, and her under eye wrinkles are revealed when she smiles. 

“Well, now you know.” Ressler returns her a polite smile and goes back to skipping. 

 _Is she from a different division?_  In any case, he hasn’t planned on getting himself an audience. He likes to workout in peace, that’s why he’s coming in here at six-thirty in the morning.

After skipping Donald lets himself rest a bit. As he takes a hand-wrap from his locker shelf, he notices the stranger stretching on the mats. A jarred pale scar is running down from the edge of her tank top over chiseled abs to the waistband of her slim pants.

_Pretty rough ride she had._

He doesn’t want her to think he’s snooping, so he shifts his gaze away.

“Need help with those?” The woman is kneeling on the floor, back straight. Her left leg is out to the side, right arm overhead as she slowly bends over to the left. Her resolve to involve him in a chat reminds him of a bulldozer.

If she’s indeed his new partner, he’d better not screw the first impression.

“You’re boxing?”

“Was. Old habits die hard, I guess.” She finishes her exercise, stands up and goes to him.

“Donald Ressler, nice meeting you.” He extends a hand.

“Rosemary Maxwell.” 

_Hell, her parents must be funny people._

She might have sensed that because she adds quickly: “Don’t ask...” She sighs. “Just call me Max, alright?”

“Deal, call me Don then.”

Max nods, unrolling the hand-wrap. She does a thorough job, wrapping his hand over and over, making sure his knuckles aren’t tight too much; she goes around the back of his hand, and finally, secures the velcro right on his wrist. 

“Good to go.” 

“Thanks.”

He does three rounds of shadowboxing, rests for a minute, then—three more. Satisfied, he gloves up. Now—the bag. Jab, jab, kick, jab. Hook, jab, punch. Kick, jab, kick. Rest. Again. His gray tank top clings to his body, sweatpants sticky. He wipes the sweat off his forehead, throwing the loose bangs back. After four rounds he cools down, doing sit-ups. On the sixth, he’s all over at hitting the bag again.

“How about hitting something that can punch you back?”  Max clenches her wrapped-up fists back and forth.

“Confident today, aren’t you?” Ressler taunts, following her to the sparring area with mats.

“It’s not late to pass, _boy scout.”_

Ressler almost rolls his eyes.

“Gloves off, street style,” Max prompts. 

They bump their fists together.

She alters her stance, hands up, right foot in front, left in the back.

_Southpaw. Shit._

Ressler barely dodges her fist, stepping back. It does no good—the distance is shortening rapidly. Crisp and sharp punches come from crazy angles, electric jolts landing on his stomach and ribs. Ressler throws a few fast jabs to keep Max away. She isn’t even dripping sweat. He tries to throw a hook but fails as she has him pressed on the ropes, rolling on them from side to side to dodge the shots. Whenever one is blocked, he misses the next two. He blocks another, attempts for a counter to Max’s jaw, but she slips it just like that. 

“Focus, Ressler.” Max punches him again—forty percent of her actual force, he guesses—right into his solar plexus. He breathes out, his back against ropes again.

_Fuck, too fast._

He ducks another hit, plowing his fist into Max’s ribs. She winces, stepping back. He uses the momentum, closing in on her with a series of jabs, but can’t get through—Max brushes them off like a fly.

It seems she’s grown faster, although they’re already sparring for good five minutes. Max is teasing him by tapping his face or wrist with her hand, following it with another straight-right, fluttering over him—her footwork precise—swinging her stone-like fists.

Ressler hardly gets to suck the coming hook up. Another. And another. His reaction time is crap—he’s pinned to the floor, his neck squeezed between Max’s thighs. He tries to pull himself up, but she grips his hands in a lock.

Max, grinning, offers him a hand to stand up.

_A woman, man. You got your ass beat up by a woman._

She pats Ressler on his shoulder.

“For a self-taught, wasn’t that bad. Work on speed, and be less obvious.”

He nods, unwrapping his hands.

 _What else? Get shot by a toddler?_ Ressler glances at Max. _Something doesn’t add up._

“Old habits, huh?”

“Metropolitan Championship counts?” A foxy twinkle is sparkling in her eye.

“How did you land in here, of all places?”

Max’s jaw twitches.

_Touched a raw nerve?_

She composes herself in an instant.

“Won a wrong fight.”

Ressler figures it’s best he doesn’t taunt the dragon.

“Thanks for the tips. And a good company.”

“Likewise.”

  


* * *

  


Two minutes to the end of the briefing, agents are exchanging notes,  occasionally cracking a joke or two. Donald has already a grand plan for tonight—to drown the embarrassment from today’s sparring at the pub on his own. Tomorrow’s Saturday, he can get as shitfaced as he wants to.

“Hey, Ressler, ”—Gina, their IT specialist, two seats from him, waves at him—“me, Torrez, and Nick are ready to roll after seven. You coming?”

“I—”

“Listen up, everyone!” Their division chief, David Wray raises his hand, demanding silence. “The headquarters”—his face is unreadable, but Ressler knows better: the man holds a grudge against it for sidelining him a couple of times—“have finally graced us with their response regarding your promotions.”

The silence is breaking into soft excited buzz.

 _Dammit._ Donald has filed for it, but doesn’t expected much—he’s a newcomer, and there are much better agents than him who deserve this.

David glances at his watch.

“...Their representative should be here any—”

There’s a loud knock on the door, and David quickly rushes to open it.

“Sorry, me and Jerry had a long trip down the memory lane.”

Some agents snort, others— chuckle at that remark. Jerry Buckman, the Assistant Director, is a running joke—whenever he calls you on a carpet, the only thing you are struggling with is not to snooze.

Ressler barely drops his jaw to the floor, gaping at the woman who has just come in.

_Max._

Her eyes are traveling across the room. He could swear her lips twitch in some sort of a smirk when she glances at him, her jacket over her arm.

 _Is she…? Today was a test? Fu-u-ck._ He squeezes the pencil in his palm so hard its sharpened tip punctures his skin. _Fuck my life._ And here he thought his morning doesn’t suck that much. _It does._

He hears a lot of names; some agents come up, shake hands, overwhelmed because they have gotten in. Others, who haven’t been so lucky, just absently watch others returning to their seats.

“Donald Ressler!”

_No, not possible..._

“Ressler!” barks David. 

_But... How on earth..._

Ressler, barely not slipping “Why?”, stands up. It’s not a long walk to the center of the room, but right now it seems to drag like a snail.

Max gives him a paper, some sort of a form. Her handshake is like a pair of pliers, but he doesn’t show a bit he’s affected by it, squeezing her palm in return.

“Pack your bags, Agent Ressler, you’re in.”

  


* * *

  


Donald is rarely making it to his Mom. She has moved to Minnesota, White Bear Lake—her sister, aunt Joanna has also left Washington shortly after paparazzi have been getting in her hair too. Mom has been holding up for almost a year until giving up and leaving Washington—one of the journos has been harassing James on his way home from school. Donald blames himself for this—he hasn’t been around at that time, stuck in Kansas City, busy with the FBI; if he has, he’d have protected James. Mom keeps telling him it’s alright, but he knows better. Paychecks don’t change the fact James needs a father figure. And he can’t give him that. Mom can’t, too, no matter how hard she’s trying. 

When Donald visits them last time, Mom seems different: she smiles a lot, does her hair in a completely different way than she’s used to. He doesn’t want to pry on her, so he figures if anyone knows anything, it’s aunt Joanna—and she doesn’t disappoint. He makes a mental note to check this _“Jack, he’s a great guy, trust me,”_ —just in case.

He wishes he could spend more days with them all, however, his job is eating all his free time up. His lonely Saturday evenings change from shitty to bearable when he calls Mom over the phone. They’d talk for almost an hour, random stuff, really: James, school, Joanna’s new boyfriend… Sometimes his marital status comes up, too.

_“No one’s in your sights yet?”_

_“Mom, please...”_

_“Time flies, Donald, you’re not getting younger.”_

_“Mom—”_

_“Don’t know about you, but I’m getting old with my grandchildren.”_

_“I’ll think about it.”_

_“You better.”_

_“Is that a threat?”_

_“You know nothing ‘bout a woman, don’t you, dear?”_

They both laugh, say goodbyes and hang up. Donald opens the fridge: yesterday’s pizza leftovers and two beer are staring at him disapprovingly—he can almost hear his Mom’s preaching about his diet habits. As he closes the fridge’s door, his eyes catch a glimpse of the pinned photographs: Mom, holding little James in her arms; he and James together; he and Dad on a hunting trip... It feels like those pictures are taken from another life—strangers, unbothered, happy middle-class family. 

He can’t take his eyes off them, wondering, what if…

  


* * *

  


_May 2008, Washington D.C._

  


  
It’s the end of May, the summer is taking reign: trees are bringing up their best succulent hues, clusters of flowers are bathing in the warm rays of the sun. Washingtonians are dressing down, celebrating the cold and damp gone for good. The ACs at malls and cafes are stretched to a breaking point offering visitors a cold haven. 

Ressler is sitting at the cab he’s called from Reagan’s National. As he is passing familiar streets, a rising tide of memories floods him back. The cab driver is arguing with the radio, scolding the President, the government, taxes, and what-not, but Ressler doesn’t care. Instead, he absent-mindedly stares at the window.

The city hasn’t changed much: bullshit ads, slow-ass traffic lights, costly tatters on dummies, coffee joints sprout all over the corners like mushrooms… All the same—and it hurts, even more, knowing how much he has changed over time. 

The cab halts at the address of his new apartment, and Ressler, woken from contemplation, pays the driver and gets out, the duffel bag in his hand. He always travels light—already a habit—since one never knows where the life’s gonna take you.

His new apartment is in the same neighborhood he’s once lived with Mom and Dad, their old house at the opposite end of the street—he’s caught a glance of it through the cab’s window. 

Ressler pushes the door open, makes his way through the narrow hallway to the staircase, the scattered junk mail sticking to the soles of his sneakers. He slips on a banana peel, falling onto somebody’s skateboard. 

_Fuck my life._

The dirty-green door with cracked “5B” is found quickly. His back still aching, he tosses the duffel bag beside him and fumbles in his sporting jacket pockets for the key. Found, he twists it in the lock. Nothing happens. He applies more pressure, twisting, but not too hard to damage it. 

After a couple of moments, the door gives up.

The smell of paint doesn’t overlap the strong iron stink in the air. Ressler shuts the door and leaves the bag at the stand with the dusty mirror. 

The living room isn’t as spacious he’s thought it’d be, connected with even smaller kitchen—it’s not like he’s going to cook there, but last time he checked he hasn’t shrunk into some dwarf. He flops down on the couch, glancing around. _If this is the promotion…_ No, he hasn’t expected a damn mansion, but he’s thought the headquarters could at least bother to rent a place for the first month if they need him that much.

Max has made it clear he’s important. _But why? Why me? Why she needs me so much?_ He hasn’t been an outstanding agent, no. He’s just doing his job. And tries doing it well. _Maybe she mixed me with someone? Another Ressler?_ He almost laughs at the thought. Hypnotizing a black screen of a TV isn’t inspiring any thinking, so he stands up and follows into the bathroom. He snorts, glancing over the shower stall where it’s impossible to make out; showering alone might be a challenge, too. 

The cabinet with a mirror over the sink looks promising, so he takes the handle and pulls it down.

The handle stays in his hand.

Muttering, he tries to stick it back. He gets lucky after a few minutes, although makes a mental note to fix it later.

The sink has lost its whiteness, now yellowish. He cautiously reaches for the faucet. The faucet screeches as he presses it. It gurgles, struggling to let the water out, but when it does, it hisses, spraying rusty water. 

_Fucking perfect._

Washing his hands, he catches a glimpse of his worn-out face on the scratched mirror. When he’s done, the ferrous stink is in the air again—it’s his hands this time. He checks the toilet tank—a reddish slime on it—no surprise here at all. And, of course, it flushes with the same disgusting gurgling. Dollars to donuts, the walls here aren’t a lick soundproof, so the neighbors will be pretty much updated about his bathroom routine. 

Since it’s Sunday, it might be a good idea to drop by at some supermarket, grab some groceries and cleaning stuff. 

He’s hoping that when he's back, the key won’t be stuck in the lock.

  


* * *

  


_June 2009, FBI Washington field office  
_

  


Ressler has a lot on his plate at the moment: his SWAT exam is coming up, he’s bounced back and forth between National Security, Intelligence and Cyber Response… He isn’t blind, he knows something is going on. Max’s grooming him. But for what? Her replacement? She’s been on the job for six years already, her superiors pat her on the back all the time. 

It’s only after Ressler runs rings around his SWAT exam in mid-June, Max outs what’s been going on. 

“Raymond Reddington.”

Of course, everyone’s heard about the most wanted man in America and abroad. The Concierge of Crime, ex-Naval Intelligence, double agent, and a traitor. Whenever Ressler logs in the FBI’s database, Reddington’s mugshot stares back at him from the screen. 

Max presses three buttons at once on the elevator’s pad, and the elevator jerks and halts.

_What the hell?_

“Max?”

“Wait.” Max reaches for the elevator’s security camera and turns it off. “Now we’re good.”

“Good for what?”

“You’re probably wondering why I brought you here?” Max leans on the wall, the elbows crossed on her chest. “I had a team once. Best of the best, rock-solid. Or so I thought.” She spits the last sentence with disgust.

“Reddington turned the FBI agents?” 

“I’ve been tailing him for years, chose people I thought I could trust, people I thought who have my back.” 

It starts coming to Ressler, why him, out of all the agents...

“What makes you think I won’t turn? What if he finds a way to get to me?”

“Oh, I think we both know the answer to that, don’t we?”

_“Honesty is not for sale, Donald, no matter what they tell you. The moment you lie, you lose a part of yourself.”_

_“It’s good money, Mr. Ressler.”_

“You did your homework, huh?”

Max grins at him, pressing the keys on the elevator's pad, and it starts moving up.

  


* * *

  


_28th of June, a safe house nearby Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Amsterdam_

  


“I’m sorry, Rosemary, but this is the Interpol’s decision. They don’t let a rookie—”

“He isn’t a damn rookie, he’s my agent, Hawkins!”

“...to screw their op. It’s not negotiable.”

For the past half an hour Ressler listens to the dick-measuring contest between Max and Bruce Hawkins, a stout, middle-aged man resembling a bulldog, the mediator between the Interpol and the FBI.

Ressler can’t imagine how bitter it is for Max to hear all that, since she’s seen to it personally he’d be put on the itinerary to Amsterdam. His first big case, the one he’s always dreamed of… This wouldn’t have happened without Max, the wit and brains of the operation—to infiltrate a tea service at Astoria.

A tea service itself isn’t a crime—everyone with enough cash to throw might book it, and in a couple of hours they’d be drinking champagne from long-stemmed glasses, savor the most exquisite pastry from the hotel’s chefs while trying on fancy rings, sparkly earrings, and chic bracelets. 

The tearoom of the particular interest for both the Interpol and the FBI is where all the major players on the diamond market sit down twice a year to talk business, broke a few deals, and chill in the company of _Red Light District_ ladies. No one gets there unless vetted, and the Interpol has made sure to sugar the owners with the sweet deal: Interpol doesn’t go after anyone except Reddington. The Interpol also doesn’t touch any gem cutters, leaving those to their quiet business. They come for Reddington—they go with Reddington.

What is interesting, The Concierge isn’t a major player on the diamonds market. Rumors have been circulating he’s dipped a hand into diamond mines in Namibia and Russia, but he has never made it his permanent profit. Nevertheless, once in a while he steps down from arms trafficking to have a taste of high life. For the past decade, his trademark has been offering a “gone in 24-hours” package for fugitives on the run. Such meetings as at Astoria lure all sorts of colorful crooks, so he might try to promote his services there too.

Unlike other criminals who bury their heads in the sand, Reddington lives bold and glamorous, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s wanted across half the globe. To apprehend him would be a case of a lifetime. And that’s, according to Max, precisely what’s gonna happen today—“We cuff him up and extradite his ass back to the US.”

Ressler, leaning on the windowsill in the carpeted corridor, hears incomprehensible muttering from the room across him. He glances at his watch. They’d better hurry if they want to make it, the op starts in an hour, with or without him.

“...You can’t do it, Rosemary, you can’t—” 

“I can and I will.”

The door slams open, and Ressler straightens up.

“Ressler,” Max clips, “stakeout, undercover in half an hour.”

He nods, watching Max and Hawkins exchange looks for the last time.

  


* * *

  


_Somewhere nearby Herengracht canal_

   
Ressler curses the torrid weather, sweating buckets in a leather jacket and tight jeans. At least Max has let him wear sunglasses, otherwise the blazing sun would’ve burned his eyes away. The only good which comes out of the leather jacket is that no one will realize he’s carrying a gun. 

Max has also found a vehicle for him—well, it might be a loud word for this two-wheeled motorbike bucket. Ugly as the devil, uncomfortable as fuck—his butt has been square-numb from the tiny seat—it doesn’t have any legroom and stinks of used gas. There’s a tiny sticker on the panel with a pink-white kitten, and the compartment under the seat is full of wrapped and labeled women’s bras. Max’s been in a hurry to make it work, so he hasn’t gotten the gut asking her to replace it with something normal. At least, it’s dark-gray in color, not pink.

He looks around, breathing in the funky mix of chocolate waffles, exhaust fumes, and beer. As the breeze tickles his neck, it brings another wave of odors: lemon and skunk, and the damp, moist aroma of decay and mold belonging to the Herengracht canal.

It’s the first time Ressler’s out from the US, and everything here is like a different universe for him. He isn’t ignorant, he’s done his homework on his way to Amsterdam, but seeing it like this, with your own eyes is a unique experience. He has never considered himself thirsty for travel.

Brick-stone gabled houses, bright and colorful, snuggle up to each other at times torn apart by narrow openings to steer the crowds into cobblestone alleys. The tourist season is at its peak: open boats are cruising over the canals, flashes clicking and selfies taken; someone catches a breath on the bench surrounded by potted plants, feeding doves with breadcrumbs, others—look for a perfect tulip bouquet at the flower market.

As the evening sets in, the heat ebbs away, coating streets with a pleasant chill. Some seize the sidewalks, others—the outdoor seats of pubs and cafes; moths are circling over the flickering lampposts, giving in to the soothing light. Beer glasses clink, glistening in neon lights, a rambunctious medley of Dutch-Indo-English cheers shakes up the air, tumblers tapped, margaritas glasses refilled over and over.

Ressler savors the coolness with gratitude, adjusting himself on his motorbike. He’s been fed up with BrainWars, now shooting terrorists in C-Ops on his smartphone, his mind wandering somewhere else. It's been a funny day indeed. A couple of pretties have asked him out—too bad he's on the job, though, otherwise... Some slick fella has been bold enough to casually slip his number into his pocket, wink at him, and walk away as nothing happened; a little girl, noticing the kitty sticker, has asked him where she could get one—before Ressler's managed a reply, the girl's mother saves him from the embarrassment.

_What if their intel's wrong and Reddington won't show up? Or someone's tipped him off..._

Ressler's stomach growls with displeasure again—he's been fighting the appetizing scents of fried crispy meatballs and cheese since the very morning.

“Heads up, everybody. BACCHUS is on the move. Black BMW, Sierra, Juliet, Zebra, Juliet, 69.” Max’s voices drills into his ear on the comms. “25 minutes ETA, copy?”

“Roger that.” Ressler presses the smartphone to his ear, wearing a fake smile. 

_This is it. Keep calm, do what you’ve been trained to. Focus._

His nerves a strained bowstring, he’s all eyes are on the Astoria’s entrance. The hotel’s security—two bulky men in black suits—is glued to their spots on the stairs, X-raying each and every visitor. The doorman, an agile short man with a gray mustache in a steel-blue uniform, is welcoming the guests. White and black limos, Mercedes-Benzes and Audis smoothly park at the hotel’s street entrance, drivers opening cars’ doors: dressed to kill women exit the vehicle, followed by well-groomed men, excitedly chirping about tonight.

Ressler’s ears register the hum of a boat’s engine, and he turns his head to the sound.

A snow-white yacht with crimson red stripes across its hull catches Ressler’s attention: it’s somewhat less luxurious than others, yet its captain seems to hone his docking skills for at least a decade—he has never seen a vessel docked this smooth and fast. There’s no name on it— _That's odd_ —but Ressler doesn’t get to develop this thought as Max’s voice hisses on the comms.

“BACCHUS ETA 2 minutes.”

A black BMW approaches the hotel from the left side of the street and Ressler’s heart skips a beat. _Breathe. Stay calm. Plates first._ Leaving his sunglasses on the motorbike’s steering wheel, he strides to the other side of Herengracht canal, hands in pockets, pretending to enjoy the evening, all the while glancing at the BMW’s rear.

“SJ-ZJ-69”.

_Gotcha._

He takes a turn to a small bridge over the canal until he’s out of eavesdropping distance but still can watch the hotel. He leans on the rails, his eyes on the Astoria.

“Jimmy Dean to Mockingbird, BACCHUS onsite.”

A long pause follows. Ressler checks the comms—they’re approvingly screeching in his ears. Before he repeats his message, he hears Hawkins murmur.

He suddenly cuts off and Max chimes in.

“Mockingbird to Jimmy Dean, can you confirm it’s BACCHUS?”

Ressler bites his lips. _Dammit. Of course, the visual._ He’s been too agitated, and it has slipped his mind completely. _Never rely on the intel alone, always double-check._

The BMW’s driver’s door is opened, and the driver, a tall man in a suit—Ressler can’t make the driver’s face, only able to catch the glimpse at his black skin in the Astoria’s lights—strides to the entrance.

“Mockingbird to Jimmy Dean, you copy?”

“Can’t confirm it yet, hang on a sec.”

Ressler draws closer, but not too close to be made, hoping with all his heart Reddington will get out of the car now.

The driver, chatting with the valet, gives him the keys and walks away.

_Fucking shit, he flipped us._

“Jimmy Dean to Mockingbird, BACCHUS isn’t the vehicle. The driver’s just gave the keys to the valet and took off.”

Max’s curses on the comms, there’s a commotion; Ressler makes out Hawkin’s “I told you he’s gonna screw this”—the guy doesn’t bother a damn everyone’s on the comms can hear it.

_Fuck._

His hands ball in fists on their own accord as he walks back to his initial post.

_They lost him because of you! You watched a fucking yacht, moron!_

He looks around, not sure what else he can do to fix this mess. Fancy boats are circling across the canals, yachts’ engings revving. _  
_

_That's it!  
_

“He’s at the boats’ entrance!” Ressler gabbles on the comms, maneuvering through people strolling on the Herengracht. “The yacht with red stripes, it doesn’t have a name!”

He hides among the bikes and sits at the sidewalk so that he won’t be spotted by the hotel’s security.

“Yacht? You sure?” Max asks him, her voice is cracking like she’s far from him.

“Yes, I—” _My gut is telling me? Ridiculous._ “Listen, I don’t know him as you do, but you’ve told me he likes to make an entrance. It makes sense. Red’s ex-Navy, I think he’s at the steering wheel. Maybe I'm wrong about that yacht, but he'll be there, I'm sure.”

Max doesn’t answer; in fact, his comms go dead for a while. He glances at the watch: 8 o’clock. One hour to the tea party, the one they’re supposed to catch the Concierge.

The only thing Ressler’s hearing now is his unsteady heartbeat. Waiting is the most mind-numbing part. He wishes he’d be in the heat over there, disguised as the hotel’s personnel, but…

_Man, be grateful. Bulldog could’ve sent your ass back if it wasn’t for Max. Calm the fuck down and focus._

He needs to find a better spot to see the entrance. Ressler looks around, noticing an empty bench, seven feet from him, facing the Astoria. He paces there, makes himself comfortable and takes out his smartphone.

Minutes stretch one by one; comms dead. It’s like no one cares he’s left out here. He hopes Max catches Reddington, not that piece of authoritative…

“...Fucking idiots!”

Weird, but he’s happy to hear Max’s furious voice. She must have forgotten to turn off her mic.

“...I told you we can’t trust them, didn’t I, Hawkins?”

_What the heck?_

“...Don’t put this on me!”

“...What’d you expect?!”

Just as Ressler is about to ask Max what’s going on, Astoria’s front door opens and a man, short, 5’’10, wearing a fedora hat—Ressler recognizes it by its tear-drop shape and a wide brim—walks out, his face lit by Astoria’s illuminated tall windows, the features strikingly familiar.

He's learned those by heart, whenever logging in onto the FBI server.

_Holy fucking shit._

“Max? Max? You hear me? Max?” Ressler’s earpiece screeches and the comms go silent.

_Fuck-fuck-fuck._

He tries his earpiece again, whispering, watching as the Concierge nips down the stairs with unexpected lightness. When the soles of his shoes reach the asphalt sidewalk, he strolls in the opposite direction from the hotel.

_Fuck._

Ressler stands up, his right hand slowly reaching for the gun behind his jacket. Keeping his eyes on Reddington, he follows him, making his way through the bustling street. He can’t raise a gun at him now, too many civilians, so he is tailing the Concierge with extreme caution.

_Why he isn’t with someone? A bodyguard, anyone?_

_Of course, the tea party._

When smelling a trap, Reddington must have left his goons at the tea party to alert the Interpol and the FBI to buy himself some time to escape. Since this op is off the books, the local police have no idea who he is. And—Ressler watches how exactly Reddington is strolling—he avoids the surveillance cams on the streets, stepping into the blindspots precisely; he’s also not risking using an Uber as the CCTV cams are everywhere.

_He’s on the way to a safe house, maybe?_

There’s a good chance Reddington’s gonna made him sooner or later.

If he does nothing…

“FBI! S-STOP!”

Reddington turns his head on him for a brief second, and then bolts away, not waiting for Ressler to repeat. Seeing the gun in Ressler’s hands, the crowd stampedes across the sidewalk, and he elbows through them as quick as he can. It doesn’t help, so he, ignoring everything he’s been taught, raises the gun and fires a shot into the air.

People, some yelling, others—wailing, scatter like a deck of used cards, giving him the passage he needs.

Ressler, his feet burning from the run, scans the area, looking for a fedora silhouette. He finds it twenty feet ahead of him, stalled for a minute at the crossroads.

“STOP! OR I SHOOT!”

Reddington doesn’t care a lick, disappearing between the buildings. His breathing ragged, Ressler dives into the same alley, falling into the hollow darkness, disoriented; he blinks, trying to adjust to it. It’s a long, narrow alley with brick walls—Ressler’s fingertips are sliding along the smooth surface as he is cautiously moving forward inch by inch. He’s positive Reddington hasn’t left yet—since it’s so dark, the Concierge must be all over the place too, and he could use that.

Squinting his eyes and piercing into the dark, Ressler realizes the passage ends in a wall and row of dumpsters reeking of rotten fruits and spoiled milk.

“What a luscious night, don’t you agree?”

The familiarity of the voice throws Ressler off balance, his palms wet. Impossible—he’s never heard him in his life. It has everything to it: undisguised teasing, overly confident and flummoxing friendliness for a man who’s on the FBI’s most-wanted list.

As quiet as he can, Ressler takes a step back, cocking his gun. Judging by the clarity of the voice, Reddington is not far away from him, just at the opposite side, maybe at the dumpsters.

_I can’t let him go._

BANG! 

BANG!

Ressler ducks, diving in behind the wall. 

BANG!

The bullet hits a corner exactly on his temple level, splitting the brick apart. Inhaling the dust, he sneezes loudly than he intends to.

Reddington doesn’t let him a chance to counter-fire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

_Shit._

_Fuck you, you damn..._

This time it’s Ressler who fires back at Reddington.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

He hears something breaking, its pieces falling, followed by a woman’s squeal.

“These were beauteous orchids. And you almost shot a cat, thank God the poor thing fled the second it heard you shooting.”

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Ressler hides behind the wall again, anticipating the shot from Reddington.

He doesn’t fire back; instead, Ressler registers him pacing somewhere at the dumpsters, muttering curses that his suit reeks of waste.

“As much as fun it is, I’ll pass, I’m afraid.” Ressler hears the gun’s decocker click. “I’d advise you do the same. Unless, of course, your goal is to shoot that woman through her bedroom window.”

_Insane, he’s one insane motherfu..._

“Say something, agent, or I’ll begin to think you’re either deaf or dumb. I think it’s a bit of both. So which is it?”

_“Hey, cocksucker!”_

_“Hey, dumbass!”_

_“Your father what, sucked someone’s dick to buy you a place here?”_

All of a sudden his blood boils like it’s a kettle on the fire, his temples hurt, squeezed by someone so hard it seems his head’s gonna explode, his whole body is shaking like a leaf on the wind.

 _He’s just a wealthy thug, you shouldn’t let..._ “I’m not dumb!!!” Ressler doesn’t know what’s made him snap; he almost yells at Reddington, gripping the gun so tight his fingers grow numb.

“I’m glad we’ve established that, although I might have some concerns… Anyway, indulge me, agent, how come you ended up here all alone?”

Ressler breathes out, counting to ten. He needs a plan. Checking the ammo left, he spits out a quiet “Fuck”, seeing he has only three bullets left.

“It’s a shame to waste this stunning night on such a miserable company as yours, so I hope you don’t mind me filling this awkward silence.”

Ressler doesn’t utter a word, his lips moving—he mouths all the curses he remembers, gripping his gun tighter, his cheeks and neck burning.

“I’ll take it as a ‘yes’. What I can’t comprehend is this—you haven’t called in the cavalry yet. And this is when I ask myself, is it because you’re so unintelligent, or that you’re reckless enough to pursuit a man you didn’t bother to ask a name first?”

_Goddammmit, can’t you just shut up for one second?!_

“So what’s your name, huh? Leroy Bloom? Sherman Phelps? Kenneth Rathers? Or should I name you all your thirty-two pseuds?”

“We’ll need to refine your manners a bit, but that’s fine, the night’s still young.”

Ressler can’t but notice Reddington’s cheerful tone has faded a bit at him mentioning Concierge’s pseuds.

“I know who you are, Reddington. A traitor and a murderer. And you’ll rot in a jail for all you did.”

“Mm-hm…I like a man who knows what he wants.” Ressler listens in to Reddington’s closing footsteps, ready to shoot if he comes closer. “I’m the ambitious type too.” The footsteps fading, Reddington paces at the opposite side of the alley, careful not to get close. “I have a feeling we’d get along in different, much more pleasant circumstances.”

Something in the last sentence makes Ressler’s freeze on the inside. The implication in that honeyed voice...

“Not gonna happen.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Ressler could swear he’s heard a self-confident grin in the Concierge’s voice. He doesn’t get to answer, as the police sirens are wailing in the distance.

“It’s been a pleasure, agent.”

_Wait until he gets close. And then…_

“FBI! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” The woman’s thunderous voice almost deafens Ressler.

_Max._

“Redddington’s-at-the-dumpsters!” Ressler gabbles as quickly as he can falling to the floor in case Max, who, if he has done calculations right, is five feet close, hasn’t heard him. He has a vest under his leather jacket, but it doesn’t make one immune to bullets.

BANG! BANG!

BANG!

It’s brick dust again in the air. He can’t see, can’t breath a thing, his ears exploding with pain. Coughing, he crawls blindly to the place Max’s supposedly been standing at, shooting at Reddington.

“Max? Max? You there?”

His fingers touch something wet and sticky. The air smells like iron. Something glitters, catching the light from the street.

_“I didn’t know you’re married.”_

_“I’m not, it’s my cover, me and Hawkins.”_

_“Good luck with that.”_

_No. No, no, no._

Ressler manages to straighten himself up, his gun ready. His feet are wobbly like he's been on a bender, but he’ll take the shot anyway.

_He has to._

BANG! BANG! BANG!

BANG!

A sharp jolt hits his abdomen, and Ressler collapses on the wet asphalt, the gravel grains scratching his cheek. As he inhales the air for the last time, it’s infused with an odd mix of wood, whiskey, and cigars. It's not repelling, rather, pleasant fragrance.

Someone gently brushes his cheek.

He has no strength left to reach for his gun—no bullets are left anyway.

It doesn’t matter, he only wants to close his eyes and sleep.

Let him sleep…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all my readers who haven't abandoned me - you're breathtaking :D  
> Hope you stick around for more, even if I'm as slow af.  
> Be sure to check my Tumblr - http://www.skiesfallithurts.tumblr.com for resslington treats and my YouTube for some Ressler hotness https://youtu.be/TXxkuH5YVH4  
> ============================  
> Fun fact. After plotting my timeline, I realized that Jon Bokencamp messed up with Ressler A LOT. Like, the earliest age you can apply for the FBI is 23 y.o, so there's no way Ressler could have worked at the FBI for 7 years at the moment of s1 (4 years max, hunting for Red included there; unless he used Hermione's Time Turner and he did his 20 weeks Quantico, 5 years of actually becoming the FBI agent, then 1 or 2 years trainee at some field office, and only then - the badass agent we know). To apply for the FBI he'd need also 3 years of full-time work or score the highest language FBI test score, and then he doesn't need his work experience, so he can pass the tests, checks, screenings, etc. I mean, it shouldn't surprise me after 11 month pregnancy of Liz, but still... I'm not even starting about Red :D  
> ===========  
> The resslington playlist by yours truly: https://playmoss.com/en/inesa-boiko/playlist/aresslington-mix

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate it to Diego and James whose on-screen chemistry is so hot and cracking that I need a bucket of ice after each time they're together in the episode.
> 
> If this ever gets to Jon Bokencamp: Mr. Bokencamp, I can't believe you've not seen the potential of this duo. It was either a major fuckup or you were forced to write 'better' stories of beating up women, fake deaths and pregnancies.
> 
> TBL would be the most popular show but for Rostova's drama shit.


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